I live in an abandoned church.My sweetheart and I.He plays the organ while I dance for the congregation. My sweetheart and I.

The priest tried to shoot us, but couldn't dilute us.The church wasn't even his.The priest lives upstairs,stays out of our hair; and blesses us every day.

We visit the cemetery to make sure the ghosts are never lonely, the ghosts that visit us at night.They're grumpy and tired with unfinished business, and we are the shoulder on which they cry.

Consolers we are, of lost, languid souls;that visit whenever they feel.Some live,some dead, some on their deathbed;my sweetheart and I take them all.

My sweetheart brings me black and red roses, every Friday night.We sleep in the coffins,our hearts closer than ever; alive in the death of this place.

Every month we see the city, for food and for dress;ignoring the stares we get.Fighting shopowners who won't let us in, saying we must be possessed.

We keep a tidy home, we do, my dearest love and me. He cleans the pulpit, I clean the pews; and we take turns washing the priest.

Someday we might have children.We really can't decide. We know we'll be here forever. We are outsiders, not lost, nor alone, we've nowhere else to go; and someday soon we hope someone will join us.