On a couch lies a woman Next to her a doll A remnant of her childhood A symbol of the fall Her head tilted back A smile on her face But her wrists are slashed life is not the case The one who found her body doesn't speak anymore Bloodstains on the carpet Police at the door This is a picture Of a woman that once was A black and white photo not that it does Anything more than what you see anything more than what could be It could happen to you hell, it could happen to me Suicide is something of choice Yet nobody wants to hear your voice Nobody wants to listen So you cut and slash Later the police come the photographer's bulb will flash. Black and white memory holds much dread Nobody remembers these people Nor the lives they led. The book now remembers though it doesn't know their names Just something more to put on the coffee table just a bunch of still frames. It gets you thinking though so they didn't die in vain You promise it won't happen to you but they'll still lie slain History has forgotten them but the book remembers Ask history to be kind to you and not leave you in the embers. Morbid curiosity steals over just take one last peek At the black and white photographs sitting on the antique In Dutch and English the preface reads But soon into the black and white mem'ries the wording leads. The corpses of the long dead reach out beyond the grave To beg of you one last favour; you should their memories save. In black and white that's where they lay In black and white night or day Black and white photographs of ones long gone Black and white photographs left to those who go on.
In memory of all our dead.