A peculiar scent pours down from hidden rooms upstairs
The fragrance of mystic gods, accented by the silent realignment of the crowd
Shown into the theatre, her blood-red velvet lair
Where each red chair's embroidered with an open golden mouth
They are announcing the demon queen
“Everybody take a seat,
sit back and don't forget to breathe”.
“Tickets please”, says the vinyl coated usher
(whipper, greaser, flusher)
He puts them in a box
And walks up to the curtain, puts a finger to his lips
Here she comes! Siobeth!
Here she comes! Siobeth!
When the curtain closes
We are left alone
to cool ourselves down
to come around and silently go home
I see backs of reputable men
melt into the night
beyond the reach of the neon sign
But not me
I'm waiting by the backstage doors
I must be with her
She must be my girl
No matter what people say