There's a crack in the edge of the end of the world where I will sit with my love in it's fluorescent swirl. Eat us up, break it down to the tiniest cell in our room with a view and a window to hell. Where those who buried bodies in their barrels of fun will be marched through museums that display what they've done. They'll be shot up through the sky by a cannon of sin where we'll reluctantly let them in. So can I lie in your grave?
