Hvad nu, hvis Tina Dickow ikke sang om varmt sand (eller hvad den sang nu handler om), men om en fejlslagen lovecraftiansk dæmonpåkaldelse (findes de mon som andet end fejlslagne?)? Så havde sangen nok heddet Dead Gods.

Scrawls on the floor
And you spoke a dead language
Opened a door
And you called upon anguish
I took a good look at you
I knew there was nothing I could do
Just stood there and screamed at you
What could I do?

Dead gods waking from their sleep
Their tentacles writhing in the deep
Madness settling down on me
Forgetting the things that shouldn’t be

I pulled at your robe
But you kept on chanting
A satanic pope
The walls started panting
Left here as dead and glowing eyes
Held you and pushed me aside
Aching with fear I
Screamed from inside

Old gods rising from the deep
The sound of them drifting in my sleep
Madness settling down on me
Forgetting the things that shouldn’t be
The things that shouldn’t be
The things that shouldn’t be

It’s all I’ll ever dream of
It’s all I’ll ever fear to touch whenever I reach out

Mad gods following your voice
Forever paying for your choice
Madness settling down on me
Forgetting
Dark gods crowding in the room
Blood stains spelling out your doom
Madness settling down on me
Forgetting the things that shouldn’t be
The things that shouldn’t be
The things that shouldn’t be