Ticket Stubs

You with the black eyes,

It is really no surprise:

You’ve been smoking shit all night;

No longer such a pretty sight.

As your mascara runs down

Those supple little cheeks of yours;

Yesterday they liked you around,

But are you really, really sure?

And when it all fades out

To the background of this club,

Are you gonna be found out?

You’re used up like a ticket stub.

And in the pale strobe-lights

And the darkness creeping in,

Do they know about your secrets,

Do they know about you sins?

They pretend to know you,

But you won’t tell them a thing.

You’re living for the heroine

And they’re living for the bling.

Will they find out what a freak you are,

Will they act like nothing’s wrong?

Will they burn out like a fallen star,

And drown in this Bastille song?

Maybe they don’t know yet

That you’re such a fraud,

That you spend your daytimes

With music as your god.

But the lyrics will not heal you,

The beats won’t drown you out.

You cannot, will not be forgotten

Even if that’s what you want.


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