In a comfortable fit in uncomfortable heat
projecting a storm on a sheet
we are the lost, this is our beat
drunk on the nectar the angels secrete
alone in the dark in a stranger's arms
seduced by the stranger's strangest charms
we are the lost, and these are our harms
self-inflicted strangeness, the strange self to calm
Like Ginsberg retelling Edgar Allan Poe
telling stories of shadows with eyes that glow
we are the lost, and this is our show
black leather, black lace, black stallion, black snow.
Injecting the memories with universal meaning
the good, the band and the fleeting revealing.
we are the lost, it's your scene we are stealing
drunk on the secrets the angels are secreting.