Seventy-four. Seventy-five. He's getting used to it now, 
how each one falls away in that hoary light. and they are 
gone, gone frome the age, gone from the guards and their 
hands. It's no different today than in years gone by. But 
he won't come out tonight, with his hands so thin and 
whiteÂ…

Gone. Gone from the page, and then he is gone from your
eyes, as that splintering wave takes so many lives. And 
where every angel looks dead, every face a lie. But you 
won't come out tonight, with your hands so thin and 
white, aliveÂ…

Seventy-four, seventy-five,
Daddy, come back to me now–
I would beat them away
I would pulled you out
I would wash all the cinders from your eyes
And with silver and gold
I would adorn you
Let it all come out tonight, when they pull you out 
alive.
Alive