Through the searching lights
That weave and dart
Comes the stranger that
Cares not for your heart
The pain of living life this way
Must take its toll on you some day.
Your jaded eyes can see
Embarrassment or harm the frail skin
That bleeds emotionally on guard.

All lowest forms of life
Are pounding you inside
Your hollow cold display
Your tired masquerade
Let the image that you present entice
Unlike the mirror that shows the strains
Of vice this act of contact your decay
While willing souls will more that pay.

Writer : HOLMES, MACKINTOSH
Copyright : Lyrics © UNIVERSAL MUSIC-Z TUNES