Paroles: Every Time I Die. New Junk Aesthetic. Roman Holiday.

We caught our teeth in the bedroom
We slit our wrists on our custom dollar bill
Witches, witches, withes, witches
We are the death of the party

We are the life of the funereal, all of us
Bring this, bring this, bring this

I want the righteous roots
I want the fresh meat
I want the first born
I want the dead beat

We traded poses on flood lights
The stop sign all of this
Witches, witches, witches, witches
We found our way in the black out

We are the ghosts in the lighthouse all of us
Bring this, bring this, bring this

I walk the open road
I walk the dark streets
I walk the...
I walk the west heat