Time For Tenderness

When I awoke I lay tied to a foreign bed. Inside a house sown out of human flesh. A palace of skin graft architecture. Oh desolation! I can't stand to f**k these walls. Desolation! I can't stand to s*ck these halls. But how do I sleep when the skin I stroke underneath the sheets is mannequin plastique? And I wonder where the girl who slept beside me has gone. When the faces in the photos stare with gla*s eyed mystique Tick, tick, tick, tock I watch the clock for tenderness.