Bound to the sound of the inner hound that furiously pounds.
Embellished in an act, thinking it's a fact.
Mounted atop our thrones, traveling anywhere we'd like to roam.
Lounging around town, exhibiting a false crown.
Eluding daily races, displaying multiple faces.

Scuffing at a stranger's feet, pleading for something to eat.
A strays reflection always gets ignored, a plethora of attempts, and now you're bored.
Feigning dead on the street, informants with a gift, a vanguard versus defeat, the truth does drift.

The low class minority, hidden in high society.
Bloodthirsty days, aimlessly stray.

Nobody listens, they only hear.
Caught in the frissons, they were top tier.
Thought we were the villains, you couldn't help but veer.
Away from the Crimson, it's how you persevere.
We kept on spinnin, acting as precursors.
The details have been written, authored as observers.

It doesn't matter if it's the slums or the palace, it's all the same malice.
Born and bred on the dark side of a tune, in the shadows is where we loom.
Keeping people at a distance of our own accord, the lowliness of a double edged sword.

Nobody invests, they only browse.
Everyone expects, reality to bow.
What's left? A world of guests, inside of a dollhouse, from an impractical quest of fabricated vows.
_

It's not easy, being bound to the sound of the inner Hound.
Embellished in an act, thinking it's a fact.
Lounging around town, living without a crown.
Sprawled out on the ground, rabid as a hound.
It looks as if you're ready for the pound.

Plenty of interactions.
Few good reactions.
Acts of Mannerisms with no one to chat with.

A back...