Letra da Música: Emergency Broadcast Syndrome - Every Time I Die

Position the phantom rigged in reflective tape.
Situated like a makeshift antenna, grinning like tinfoil.
We're losing reception. we can't pick up the game.
I should be discontinued.
I am a broadcasting embarrasment.
Hiss like the damned.
Decoding the transmitted pulse that dispatch from her lips.
I am not recieving a sign that says i am still here anymore.
Do you hear me?
Am i coming through at all?
Is any of this making sense?
You've got a ghost on your hands.
A televisual image only partially clear.
Scrambled phantom (i wish we'd all just stop talking at once).
Spitting and cursing from the scrapheap we're on.
You should have lost your cool