Man, you're a right mess
Should I even bother with pieces?
Some silly girl wrote her spell under your brow
Leaving you concave and broken beyond recognition, as if
A man in a mask could be recognized.
You played a demon and took a
Crowbar to the keys, you
Filled your stomach with sand and lungs with paper
That left their words like tattoos in you.
You were bound to make a mistake
It was your first taste of freedom
Your ninth taste of sin
Your fiftieth of that feeling of not knowing where to begin
It was your second taste of kindness
And your third taste of crime
It was the last kiss you had before running out of time
And now you know why

You glide through shadows
Gilded with jilted wooden cupids
You wrote a song for a hothouse flower
Lending you the hope of garnering some recognition, as if
A man in a mask could be recognized.
You played an angel and took a
Solitary moment to
Reflect upon that kiss and ring your dead bells
To awaken the distant thunder
It pounded in you like a demon companion
And overran you with jealous grief
You were bound to make a mistake
It was your first taste of freedom
Your ninth taste of sin
Your fiftieth of that feeling of not knowing where to begin
It was your second taste of kindness
And your third taste of crime
It was the last kiss you had before running out of time
And now you know why

Do you call this music?
I call it an apology
For taking that reckless dive into
Your tour de force

The opera was a requiem
A coup de grace to sing
Sweet and low

Now you know why
It was the first taste


Alternately inspired by Fiona Apple and The Phantom of the Opera