IRC-Galleria

Mirrors on the ceiling/
The pink champagne on ice/
And she said ’we are all just prisoners here, of our own device’/
And in the master’s chambers,/
They gathered for the feast/
The stab it with their steely knives,/
But they just can’t kill the beast//

Last thing I remember, I was/
Running for the door/
I had to find the passage back/
To the place I was before/
’relax,’ said the night man,/
We are programmed to receive./
You can checkout any time you like,/
But you can never leave!//