Lyrics by Chris Cornell
Music by Kim Thayil

All of seventeen
Eyes a purple green
Treated like a Queen, she was
On borrowed self esteem


She would do a dance
A painful masquerade
Spinning you into her web
Along her vain parade


In her uniform
Studded brass and steel
Kissing lipstick, napkin stains
And smearing sincerity


Along her vain parade
Along her veins


Time crept up on her
She's early gray
Her reflection looks concerned
As flowers hit her grave