Curse behind the white picket fence

Greville and the Tombstones are not an imaginary protest folk band, Greville and the Tombstones are an alt-gothic band that doesn't exist.

These lyrics took 2 months to write. Only in the past week have they revealed themselves to be a gothic protest song.

Perhaps it's Greville and the Tombstones absorbing the zeitgeist of the times and projecting it through it's prism.

Perhaps it's simply a horror story that isn't real.




This is:
Curse behind the white picket fence

It doesn’t matter what was said,

Or what is going to be said next.

ALEA IACTA EST

Only flowers transform in one place.

And the dead.  

You’re shrivelled of the soul.

I wish you to wither under your own failing toll.

There is no art to you.

And if nobody cares,

then why do I need to forgive myself to you?

And if nobody cares under this sun,

Then who else is left to do

what needs to be

done?

Claim to be a leader, a learner, a teacher.

This is not where the strengths lie.

They're in arrogance and to blunt falsify.

Why make of altruism not being a game.

Then play a deck hand where losers drown.

For to appear elevated, hand slyly pushes down.

I know the Godless: biology without faith.

Like a watch which needs wound every day,

there are times even the

faithless should

pray.

Don’t gift me life, bring me a death scene

of twisted character traits

and compound fractured debates.

When an arm is needed tight around despair,

a broken one is useless there.

All you are, all you do

will ossify, mulch and turn to mildew.

Like roses you cut when they beautifully

grew.

Crows protect us from your flight.

Glare from the graveyard to the above

feathery night,

shelter us from the hellish dove.

Then why do we need to forgive you with love?

When our raging love career at hanging night,

an abrasion of rain at your

execution.

Your white picket fence is riddled with woodworm

No more protecting, no more holding firm.

I am scraping at the posts,

With my

thorns.