I can see the light of a crooked moon,
Green and white, spilling through your room.
White spiders are spinning across the walls;
They are building an empire, waiting for us to fall.
You were humming low, some forgotten tune
'Bout a singer from Memphis in a sequined suit.
White spiders are spinning across the room;
They are building an empire out of me and you.
Sky-writers were writing, white smoke on blue;
They were building an empire out of me and you.