The End کے بول

Now come one, come all, to this tragic affair Wipe off that make up, for sin is to spare So throw on the black dress, mix in with the lot You might wake up and notice you’re someone your not If you look in the mirror and don’t like what you see You can find out first hand what it’s like to be me So gather round ladies and kiss this goodbye And encourage those smiles, and then split you might fly Oooh Another contusion, my funeral track, has my resignation A servulant lack, you’ve got front row seats to the penitent spot When I grow up I want to be nothing at all Yeah, say yeah, yeah, come on Give me your hand in my hand Tell me that your, tell me that one day If you can hear me, just walk away