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The Mars Volta - Miranda That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore Pour Another Icepick
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I think I've become like one of the others 
I think I've become like one of the others 
I think I've become like one of the others 

There was a frail syrup dripping off 
His lap danced lapel, punctuated by her 
Decrepit prowl she washed down the hatching 
Gizzard soft as a mane of needles 
His orifice icicles hemorrhaged 
By combing her torso to a pile 
Perspired the trophy shelves made room for his collapse 
She was a mink hand job in sarcophagus heels 

Bring me to my knees 
Read the sharpened lines 
All my arms, 
Bled me blind 
Faucet leaks in shadows 
Spilling from morgue lancet 
Caressed your fontanelle 
I've sworn to kill every last one 
Every last one 
Panic in the shakes of the wounded 
Panic in the worms 
Onto the floor 
And out of your mouth 
Out of your eyelids 

No there's no light, in the darkest 
Of your furthest reaches 
No there's no light, in the darkest 
Of your furthest reaches 

All your dreams, splintered off 
Leech by leech on this catafalque 
Anyone will tell you, yes anyone 
Chance had me setting a trip wire alarm 
Your mother flirted with disease 
When she skinned that costume by it's navel strings 
Panic in the shakes of the wounded 
Panic in the worms, onto the floor 
And out of your mouth 
And out of your eyelids 

No there's no light, in the darkest 
Of your furthest reaches 
No there's no light, in the darkest 
Of your furthest reaches 
No there's no light, in the darkest 
Of your furthest reaches 

Shock lest shackles free you 
Volt face cons 
abandon you again 
I won't feel not this time 

Shock lest shackles free you 
Volt face cons 
abandon you again 
I won't feel not this time