She has pestilence on her lips,
A harlot from the belly of the beast.
He wears sackcloth and ashes
And Golgotha grins from within
The affliction of his peace.
She has seven husbands
But has been married only once.
He is married to her need
And his crucifix of flesh
Awaits pure devotion of her want.
So dance slow waltz
With love gone wrong
The singer's gone
But not the song
You killed his dream
So pay for the crime
Dance with a dead man
In three-quarter time.
She has her navel pierced,
A handcuff to her self-mythology.
His hands and feet are pierced
By her pointed spikes of pride,
Forged in the fiery furnace
Of her shameless insincerity.
She has been taken always,
But never once made love.
He tries to take her guilt,
Welded to steel pattern
Of her pastel push and shove.
So dance slow waltz
With love gone wrong
The singer's gone
But not the song
You killed his dream
So pay for the crime
Dance with a dead man
In three-quarter time.
She has famine in her eyes,
A plague that noone can out-do.
He eats hunger every dawn,
His pangs of understanding
Praise emptiness that death renews.
She holds a death certificate,
As if it were a doctorate degree.
Sisters of mercy weep
As his being breaks
Into a metaphor of Calvary.
So dance slow waltz
With love gone wrong
The singer's gone
But not the song
You killed his dream
So pay for the crime
Dance with a dead man
In three-quarter time.
Go back to the eighth floor of the Memory Motel
Go to Rudebaker's Bar in the Memory Motel
Try to find meaning in your life
March in the Salvation Army