Graveyard Turntable Riot

(ah!) Back to black—step in.

Five, eight, nine—ready. Back to black,

I’m back in the rack of the midnight hall.

Carved grin on the door and a drum in the wall.

Five, eight, nine—count it like a curse in time,

I slide through the scene with a rusted rhyme.

Ray in my pocket like a spark that won’t die,

I aim it at the doubt,

make the brave ones fly.

Hold your breath—hear the floorboards talk.

One more step

and the night will walk.

Say it clean when the clock aligns: Five,

eight, nine.

Back to black—bring it back,

bring it back.

Five, eight, nine—let the bad luck stack.

Ray in my hand,

cut a lane through the gray,

Back to black—Halloween, don’t look away.

Back to black, I paint the air with a marker bite.

Footsteps in the attic,

and they never walk right.

Five, eight, nine—metal numbers on my tongue,

I laugh at the fear like a song half-sung.

Ray on the corner where the porch light fades,

I cut through the costume,

see the real parade.

If you see me in the doorway,

don’t blink.

I’m the joke and the jolt and the missing link.

Count it slow when the hallway shines: Five… eight… nine… Back to

black—bring it back, bring it back.

Five, eight, nine—let the bad luck stack.

Ray in my hand,

cut a lane through the gray,

Back to black—Halloween, don’t look away.

Back to black. Five,

eight, nine. Ray… (ahhhh)