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.

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