The noise of the neon gods that we have made

Remind us of the times that we have strayed

Into the darkness of our tattered souls

Hiding there within the coldness of shadows

Seeking our fortunes in our whispered screams

Too often landing in the dustbin of broken dreams

It’s a masquerade that we wear all to well

As we let the minstrel in the gallery tell our tales

He paints by number all of our sacred scenes

Played like a child splashing across our dreams

Living the nightmares one scream at a time

Laughing at our tragedies like some senseless crimes

Yet, somehow we find our way to deeply felt laughter

Resting assured that we dogs will be saints in the hereafter