Turn that dial
Turn it, turn it, turn it
And listen to them squeal.
You’re not really goth
Just cus you got the mohawk,
But those girls sure do scream
When you put your hair in your face
And turn those dials,
Turn those wheels,
Turn that table;
It’s the DJ thing that gets them hot.
Just a reminder about the checklist
Black clothes, black smile, black humor
Check. But if it’s really you,
Then it came already, before the package,
Slathered in industrial music and a taste for the underside.
Be sure to think of a snazzy name
Like Dante or Greebo or Zim
So that those girls will remember
When they’re at home in bed
Alone in the dark
With their nine inch nails
And black eye paint smeared
That it was Dante who gave them their dreams
Of stringy black mohawk through their green fingernails.
They’ll get you every time, those little girls
How they do try to live up to your appetite.
For now they hide identity inside nipple rings
And twisted tattoos of weeping roses.
One more thing
Don’t forget the title of your club.
Name it for what you want to do
To the woman who comes in
With a knife in her corset
And cherry blood lips.