You don't have to play me backwards
to get the meaning of my verse.
You don't have to die and go to hell
to feel the devil's stress.
Well,
I thought my life was a photograph on the family Christmas card.
Kids all dressed in buttons and bows and lined up in the yard.
Were the golden days of childhood so lyrical and warm?
Or did the pictures start to fade on the day that I was born?
I've seen the light candles and I've heard them bang the drums.
And I've cried, Mama, Mama, I'm cold as ice.
And I've got no place to run.
At the night begin,
there's a pop of skin and a sudden rush of scarlet.
There's a little boy riding on a goat's
head and a little girl playing the harlot.
There's a sacrifice in an empty church,
a sweet little baby rose.
And a man in a mask from Mexico is peeling off my clothes.
I've seen the light candles and I've heard them bang the drums.
And I've cried, Mama, Mama, I'm cold as ice.
And I've got no place to run.
So I'm paying for protection,
smoking out the truth,
chasing recollections, nailing down the proof.
Don't have to play me backwards to get the meaning of my verse.
You don't have to die and go to hell to feel the devil's curse.
And I'll stand before your altar and tell everything I know.
I've come to claim my childhood at the chapel of baby rose.
I've seen the light candles
and I've heard them bang the drums.