Under the cold of tears
She'll decay and be warm
The style is death
A white rose in a morphine dream
A joke to amuse life
You're buying to a snowstorm
While you shake the thoughts
Memories of conversation
Oh, come turn the line
Like eager sadness
A knife hollows them out
Hollows them out
A thin skin of black letters
A thin skin of black letters
I make myself sick
Born with thoughts of disappointment
Hands out, palms dry
Give me something to grasp
False truth or fake hope
We say "yes" to death
A joke to amuse life
You're buying to a snowstorm
While you shake the thoughts
Memories of conversation
The style is death
The style is death
The style is death
The style is death
