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Eating the paint on the Orpheum walls
are the voices of every performer
Some dressed in black with pearls in their hair
Some straight from England (Paul Weller)
Truthfully, I've been left freezing myself
eating the cup of the deep yellow moon
lifting the music out past the old walls
of this beat up Victorian room
Frescos are heavenward scrolling and spun
faded out velvet on chairs
A spit of a girl now behind the tall mike
not a one of the men in her life still is there
She is a replica of each of these seats
and what they contain there with in
The crying and torture of bruised and bled souls
left over from yesterday's sin
She is the voice of collective remorse
They're sorry for spilling the moment
The room heaving breath from her following's sigh
releasing their beaten up torment
All of the paint absorbs the dark air
and peels on like acid to rain
Orpheum walls, once a grand concert hall
Now home to, and bursting with pain.

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