(Verse 1) Pineapple skin and a cheap box cutter I’m a stuttering mess in the bread and butter You’re a charcoal sketch, I’m a neon blur Tracing the static where the feelings were (Is it loud enough? Is it cold enough?) We’re just fruit flies on a rotting peach Heaven is a ceiling fan just out of reach. (Pre-Chorus) And the synths start bleeding through the floorboards Like a gospel choir hitting all the wrong chords. (Chorus) So put your hands on the vanity, feel the decay We’re the kings of the kitchen till the sun turns grey I’ve got a "Mr. Brightside" heart in a "Science Fiction" head Tracing every single wicked thing you never said Oh, it’s a beautiful catastrophe! Honey, pass the kerosene. (Verse 2) Clean the blood off the Fender, it’s a holy rite We’re just shadows dancing in a halogen light You taste like copper and a long-lost grudge I’m the jury, the witness, and the hanging judge (Did you want a savior? Or just a place to hide?) Pull the ribs apart, let the nectar slide. (Bridge) (Whispered) I am a stone, I am a sinking ship. (Shouted) I’M THE GLOSS ON YOUR LIP! I’m the crack in the glass where the light gets in Let the feedback loop and the ritual begin! (Outro) Stay gold, stay plastic. It’s tragic... it’s fantastic. (Fades out with a distorted, warbling synth loop
