Στοίχοι: Imaad Wasif. The Hand Of The Imposter (Is The Promise Of My Own.

The rain was pounding on my rooftop,
Like an animal whipping through a cage.
Now that you're gone there's no reason for me to stay on.
Well I wanna go back home,
Where I only know the less known's.
I wanna break free from all these freaks.

Come visit me in dreamland, and talk in a voice that's quick.
The invisible man was the ghost of a woman and a famous rip-off artist.

In the ancestral halls where the yellow wallpaper begs for my superstitions,
I stood on the vents for long enough to blend the person I was then with who I am now.
It's my shining hour,
Ring out a joyful hymn for the prisoner on the high roads of the glow.
And music of the spirits, a sub-style, astronomers hoax.
One by one I've unhooked the stars and hid them in my coat-tails.
Who will carry the torch?
And who will inherit the throne?
And all of the posers are inching closer, even the losers and clones.
An organ rises, a distant wave somewhere on the periphery.
My contempt for you is marching on, bittersweet and unrelenting.