Grey fieldys get eaten by the depth of the night. Three locked themselves in the old bethel. They are shaking in their shoes. And we are walking out of our hideyholes.
She died in August, I’ll die tomorrow. We are Alabama Vamps and we don’t have a sorrow.
Don’t make us laugh with your crucifix. We don’t give a damn ‘bout stakes. Ages lie ahead of us. Ages of solitude.
She died in August, I’ll die tomorrow. We are Alabama Vamps and we don’t have a sorrow.