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.
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Emergency Broadcast Syndrome Lyrics

Every Time I Die – Emergency Broadcast Syndrome Lyrics