You don’t have to play me backwards,
To get the meaning of my verse,
You don’t have to die and go to hell,
To feel the Devil’s curse.
Well I thought my life was a photograph,
On the family Christmas card.
Kids all dressed in buttons and bows,
And lined up in the yard.
Were the golden days of childhood,
So lyrical and warm?
Or did the picture start to fade,
On the day that I was born.
Let the night begin, there’s a pop of skin,
And the sudden rush of scarlet,
There’s a little boy riding on a goat’s head,
And a little girl playing the harlot.
There’s a sacrifice in an empty church,
Of sweet li’l baby Rose,
And a man in a mask from Mexico,
Is peeling off my clothes.
I’ve seen them light the candles,
I’ve heard them beat the drum,
And I’ve cried Mama, Mama, I’m cold as ice,
And I’ve got no place to run.

So I’m paying for protection,
Smoking out the truth,
Chasing recollections,
Nailing down the proof.
I’ll stand before your altar,
And tell everything I know,
I’ve come to claim my childhood,
At the chapel of baby Rose.