Luyện nghe bài hát Miranda That Ghost Just Isn't Holy Anymore: Pour Another Icepick

I think I've become like one of the
I I've become like one of the others
I I've become like one of the others

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

Bring me to my
the sharpened lines
All my arms,
Bled me
Faucet in shadows
Spilling from morgue
Caressed your
sworn to kill every last one
Every one
Panic in the of the wounded
Panic in the
Onto the
And out of your
Out of eyelids

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

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

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

lest shackles free you
Volt cons
abandon you
I feel not this time

Shock lest free you
face cons
abandon you
I won't feel not time