Our initial silliness, with the camera the wrong way. Wondaaaful.
Perry Choptarts.
The Jersey shore went nuclear, the water’s turned to blood.
The Jersey shore, it went to war.. and nothing’s what it was.
The hymn books? They lay cobwebbed on the empty, broken pews.
The alter has collapsed, the church bells ring out at the news.
The preacher speak of gossip and the gospels gone to waste.
Not even that of Holy Grace could make it in this place.
Not even those who sing his praise can save what’s been erased.
He’ll never be replaced.
The living? They’re as stagnent as those lifeless in the streets.
The dead? Well we still cut them just to see if they will bleed.
The medics? They can’t save those who insist on being lost.
And funerals are rituals, when that city line’s been crossed.
Not even that of Holy Grace could ever save this place.
Not even those who speak of faith believe in better days.
He’ll never be replaced (And you won’t ever see his face)..
This is dead New Jersey, we hope you had the best of stays.
Don’t even bother punching in, because you won’t be punching out.
You don’t have a name anymore, just a face lost in the crowd.
The beating in your chest, it’s not a heart.. that’s just your breathing.
This is dead New Jersey, we hope you didn’t plan on leaving.
My brilliance overwhelms me sometimes.
That is indeed, me. Ashley Lavigne.
