On summer nights, what do they call that song that drifts through my window, that whispers of the truest love of all? What do they call that song? My bedroom light will burn till the dawn silences the trees, and I will still be dreaming of you and me. Baby, what will you call this song? Sadie, what will you call this song?
She says even we have angels, I say speak for yourself. I think you have me mixed up with someone else because I haven't seen an angel since I don't know when, and I'm starting to get scared I'll never see one again. I looked down, I saw the light, I looked up, I saw the ground. And I saw legions of demons circling round and round, eating up your angels like they're made of cake, and clawing at the walls to get every last scrape of your angels. To hell with your angels. The angels you believed in when you don't believe in me. The angels you see sadly that I will never see. Your angels, your pretty little angels. Your angels, your pretty little angels.