We’re the freaks in the picture frame! v2

A campy horror-pop groove at 112 BPM, built on a stalking minor-key bass line, detuned pipe-organ chords, and punchy floor-tom hits. Record close-miked vocals in a tiled bathroom for hard reflections and a tight slapback echo; add rattling chains, breathy whispers, and metallic percussion, with abrupt stops and a cheeky, theatrical hook.

[Intro — Fast, jagged rhythm, bass like footsteps in a damp basement, sharp guitar feedback.] [Verse 1] The butcher’s grin is stitched with rusty wire, He sells the night in jars of spoiled desire. His teeth are nails, his tongue is black and curled, I saw him carve the moon and leave it skewered. The walls are breathing, peeling like old skin, Every crack is whispering your name again. [Chorus] We’re the freaks in the picture frame! We crawl out when the lights go lame! No holy water, no silver blade, Just the taste of fear we’ve made! [Verse 2] The clock’s hands are gnawed down to bone and gristle, Time’s got maggots in its tick-tock mumble. A doll with eyes that follow you to bed, Its smile is sewn from someone’s last words said. I found a mirror that shows what you’ll become, A twisted thing with hollows where the heart was numb. [Chorus] We’re the freaks in the picture frame! We crawl out when the lights go lame! No holy water, no silver blade, Just the taste of fear we’ve made! [Bridge — Suddenly, it gets quieter; the bass holds a single note, the voice is almost a whisper, then there’s a burst.] They say the house is empty, but I saw the floorboards dance, A shadow knelt and licked the dust from an old photograph. And when I turned, the hallway grew ten miles long, With doors that open into screams, not rooms at all. [Guitar solo] [Verse 3] The priest is made of wax and rotten lace, He blesses you with a smile full of dead space. Candles burn with blue and green decay, The altar’s dripping with yesterday’s gray. Laugh if you want, call it all a joke, But the walls just blinked and took another breath. [Chorus — As loudly as possible, with the refrain “Ha! Ha! Ha!”] We’re the freaks in the picture frame! We crawl out when the lights go lame! No holy water, no silver blade, Just the taste of fear we’ve made! [Outro — Abrupt strikes, a sound like someone scraping on glass, a final hoarse laugh.] In the picture frame… In the picture frame… We never fade.