Real goths dont dance, we just sulk to circumstance
And sit in darkened corners
And fumble with our hands Real goths dont sing, we won't sing for anything
Just curse and moan in lowered tones
And occasionally screamThe sun at your back, my hands in your hair
Pulling up anchor when you suddenly explain
The wind at your back, your hands in my hair
Just getting comfortable when you suddenly explain
Fading in your face i could disappear for days
Your amorous tears
And your tawdry laceHis charms are his physique
And im sure that youd agree
Ive got the body of a man that reads poetry

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