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 receiving 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.
Emergency Broadcast Syndrome Lyrics