I longed and I waited for something with teeth and it came in the form of this prosthetic face. All wrapped up in paper like fire trucks for orphans. The eyes were the holes where they burned out the maps that we made. You don't find your way back from this place. So onwards and upwards, the skies were erected. We fell from great heights but now we try to make the best of our time down here. Half an hour after the devil knows you're dead, you've got keys to the city, striking Faustian bargains. Saying 'Did we agree on a nominal fee for the sins of the fathers to be struck from the records? Burn up and blown away. And take every last trace of the telltale corpses and indiscretions we wish would lay low. Lay low. Close your eyes and think of Christmas ‘cause we're not getting out of here intact. They burn out the eyes, you don't find your way back from this place. You got keys to the city but it's nowhere and you're guilty of everything. But I know a town where you can buy absolution for a song.