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 it all in lower tones and occasionally scream

Sun at my back
Hands in my head
willing on anger when you suddenly explain
Lean at my back
Sun in your head
Just getting comfortable when you suddenly explain

Fading in your face, I could disappear for days
Your amourous tears, and your tawdry legs
his charms are his physique
And i'm sure that you'd agree
I've got the body of a man who reads poetry

Sun at my back
Hands in my head
willing on anger when you suddenly explain
Sun in your back
Wind in your hair
Just getting comfortable when you suddenly explain