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• Artiste: Mode Moderne
• Titre: Real Goths
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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