In this house of ancient drapery
lies a single musty, dusty memory;
rotten and decayed.
Creaking away down woollen corridors
in the eerie midday sun;
the showers of dust from the release
of our souls will fall
in due course.

So will you join me,
take a seat by my side,
at the dinner table?
There'll be no menu but the crack of the clock
and the sound of the electric air.
Choose your chair carefully, my dear.

They say the way to say, 'I love you,'
is to kill yourself.

Suicide.
Side-by-side.

(It can't be right --
but they told me so,
they told me so.)

So will you join me,
in seats suicide?
Or take a look through the menu,
before my side-by-side?
Can you feel the tongue tied this time,
this love,
my love?
The dinner table's set
in the dusty, musty memory.
Breathe the careful air,
and choose of the electric chair,
my dear.