In the clockwork, in the clockwork, time is never at ease
A frantic sensation is hammering nails in your spine
Multiple fractions and muscle contractions will tear
Your mind into shreds, cutting your threads
Do you regret you were born?
Take my hand in to yours, dance my senses away
Take my hands into yours, before
Mother superior's home
Monsieur, monsieur you look like the saint in my dreams
Igniting the flame and carving my name next to yours
This urban decline is leaving its sign round my neck
Pulling the noose, tells me I'll lose
There's nothing to save
Take my hand in to yours, dance my senses away
Take my hands into yours, before
Mother superior's home
I'm sober, I'm sober, but I wish I was not
A gentle diversion or a touch of divine I could use
The curtains are closed, but I still feel exposed to the world
Wishing away somewhere astray
Are you still listening?
Take my hand in to yours, dance my senses away
Take my hands into yours, before
Mother superior's home
Writer(s): Mats Rybo, Anne Bergheim, Turid Jorgensen, Solveig Heilo, Marianne Sveen
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