Real goths don't dance, we just sulk to circumstance
And sit in darkened corners
And fumble with our hands
Real goths don't sing, we won't sing for anything
Just curse and moan in lowered tones
And occasionally scream
The sun at your back, my hands in your hair
Pulling up anchor when you suddenly explain
The wind at your back, your hands in my hair
Just getting comfortable when you suddenly explain
Fading in your face I could disappear for days
Your amorous tears
And your tawdry lace
His charms are his physique
And I'm sure that you'd agree
I've got the body of a man that reads poetry