Songs By Rod Gilchrist (© all rights reserved)
Hero video
Redemption on the Rails video
Everybody Dies video
Not much can be said for the life of the undead,
In fact it's a terrible bore,
You drag your sorry ass, you can't move very fast,
And most nights you sleep on a basement floor.
The vampire is quite lucky, even kind of sexy,
And the werewolf only works on full moons,
While the zombie is reviled, by every man, women and child,
And let's face it: our sense of style leaves some room.
It's no fun to be a zombie, nobody wants the undead,
People are always hating on me, because I eat what's in their head.
You don't know what it's like, come zombie date night,
Those undead girls are so cold,
And their idea of romance, isn't dinner and dance,
It's all "brains, brains, brains" – man, that gets old!
I was seeing a cheerleader, who was a bit of a bleeder,
With maggots chewing her face,
It was okay, but I had to break away,
Because frankly she had a … strange taste.
It's no fun to be a zombie, nobody wants the undead,
People are always hating on me, because I eat what's in their head.
When I was first infected, I finally felt respected,
I took pride in my new found vocation.
Now I just feel so all alone, like a corpse that's been gnawed to the bone,
I'm chewing on gristle but dreaming of fresh lacerations.
I think that the worst part, is every night when I start,
This job of destruction and ruin,
There's no room for advancement, no way to enhancement,
And the benefits suck in my union.
Guess somebody's got to do it, but every night I still rue it,
So what's a poor zombie to do?
I just keep my teeth gnashing, as through walls I go crashing,
And hope one day my dreams will come true.
It's no fun to be a zombie, nobody wants the undead,
People are always hating on me, because I eat what's in their head.
Nobody sees what's inside of me, they just think I want what's inside them instead.
Was that you I saw sitting in a corner booth with the ghost of a man I once knew?
He looked kind of pale and only slightly familiar,
Like the scar from your homemade tattoo.
I'm spent -- like an empty bottle, whose purpose is all used up,
Like the crushed remnants of a cigarette,
Or the dregs in the bottom of a cup.
And the wind rakes through what's left of my mind,
The scattered remains of my soul,
Like something's half died,
I am hollow inside;
Dry as ash, dark as coal.
There's something I've been meaning to mention to you, though I avoid it like a fresh open wound,
Like everyone else, you get what you deserve,
You've earned your own special doom.
You've lived so long on the fringe of yourself, I fear that you've almost lost touch,
Your reality's twisted and bent my dear,
You see no difference between a club and a crutch.
And the wind rakes through what's left of my mind,
The scattered remains of my soul,
Like something's half died,
I am hollow inside;
Dry as ash, dark as coal.
If only I was more empathetic, with a cheery disposition to share,
I wouldn't think you so pathetic, and I might even pretend to care.
There's nothing I can tell you to make it okay, and in fact I doubt if I would,
Nothing ever changes, and it won't today,
Even if we weren’t talking damaged goods.
So it's time for you to go back to your world of feigned ineptitude,
And I will return to my sham of a life,
The crass, the cruel, the crude.
And the wind rakes through what's left of my mind,
The scattered remains of my soul,
Like something's half died,
I am hollow inside;
Dry as ash, dark as coal.
Dry as ash, dark as coal.
I once knew a man no-one could understand,
His words were twisted and bent,
They say he once stood on the edge of a wood,
And met a foul shade that was sent.
Well I can relate to this cruel twist of fate,
And the sour taste of destiny,
I've lived a life like the blade of a knife,
Severing all those close to me.
So raise up your glasses and give us a toast,
To the fond memory of your favorite ghost,
For without the spirits of those who have gone,
I doubt that we all could move on.
A women I once met, said she was beset,
By the ghost of her life every day,
She moves through existence, keeping her distance,
Like a specter who smells of decay.
She asked for a solution, demanded restitution,
But only got back what she gave,
Someone suggested, she have herself tested,
But I think she will take it to the grave.
So raise up your glasses and give us a toast,
To the fond memory of your favorite ghost,
For without the spirits of those who have gone,
I doubt that we all could move on.
I've been the ghost of myself for so long,
Haunting my life like the same old sad song,
An empty existence where you never touch,
Is like being a ghost pretty much.
The ghosts of the living are most unforgiving,
It's wrong to meet them in realtime,
You'd be killing them y'see, cause they'd no longer be,
Who they once were in your mind.
The truly deceased are safer at least,
They can exist undisturbed,
You just reach in your mind and admire them anytime,
For who or whatever they were.
So raise up your glasses and give us a toast,
To the fond memory of your favorite ghost,
For without the spirits of those who have gone,
I doubt that we all could move on.
I doubt that we could carry on.
He says he comes from Europe, some tragic war-torn land,
He says to call him Yuri, but I suspect his name is really Sam.
His finely crafted accent, flows with circumflex,
Oh how they line up, just to see who will be next!
He's a mystery man she says,
Anyone can see,
He's a mystery man all right,
What she sees in him's the mystery.
The narrative he spews -- a life of threat to harm,
A calculated subtext, designed to lend him a "certain" charm.
Her promises he freely takes, his bald-faced lies he gives,
Then cocks his leg, to mark what's left of her, as clearly his.
He's a mystery man she says,
Anyone can see,
He's a mystery man all right,
What she sees in him's the mystery.
The only time he's home at night, is when he's come to brood,
With sharpened words, like pointed sticks: suggestive, harsh and lewd.
So she sits alone most nights, and tries to understand,
The womanizing drunkard, who was once her mystery man.
He's a mystery man she says,
Anyone can see,
He's a mystery man all right,
What she sees in him's the mystery.
Mystery man (repeats)