Marion Crane, fictional character in Hitchcock’s classic horror film Psycho and O.G. Scream Queen—hysterical female or misunderstood woman? Welcome to the Coven, Marion, a safe space where you can reveal your deepest fears and truths without judgement, persecution, or the looming threat of bodily harm in the shower by a knife-wielding motel manager. Here, the only running water is for bubble baths and self-care.
Listen to Dear Norman on SunoAbout the Album
For each track that’s a part of Hysterical! The Musical, we wrote the lyrics from the perspective of a notoriously misunderstood woman history talked over—those labeled too emotional, too much, too dangerous—and now we’re giving them the mic to call out the ones who got away with it. Suno’s AI put our words to music and transformed them into the breakup ballads, revenge anthems, and feminist lullabies we didn’t know we needed. Roll your windows down, turn up the bass, and scream these bangers from the top of your lungs.
More Music on our Suno ProfileStream the Song
Stream “Dear Norman”, our ode to Marion Crane of the classic horror film, Psycho.
Read the Lyrics
My getaway car, your trashy motel.
It’s true I stole the cash, but you tried to steal my heart.
When I ghosted you, you didn’t need to go and cut it out.
Norman, here’s the thing about crime –
you can’t kill your ghosts no matter how hard you try.Picture me and mother having tea,
counting all the ways in which you disappoint and deceive,
our incorporeal laughter echoic, haunting you
until we consume all of air and space and mind,
until you know only sleepless nights,
until you are disappeared
deep into a nothing, nowhere swamp,
wrapped in cheap motel plastic and ghostly vices,
entombed in sickness, Freudian-villains, and paper-thin excuses.Two murders, three dead.
Death is tolling, tolling, tolling.
Send me a postcard from perdition.Your shower, your knife.
You said I called Mother crazy, you claimed she called me a whore,
but when I poured Mother tea, she spoke her truth and we both asked for more.
You stole her voice, my life.
You put words in her mouth, put my body in your trunk.
All of these vices – they’re you, they’re not us.Two murders, three dead.
Death is tolling, tolling, tolling.You’re just another man calling us crazy, hysterical, overbearing, whores
who’s in love with the sound of his ghostly voices.
Until they besiege you,
until you go mad when you realize
you can’t kill your ghosts no matter how hard you slice.
It’s you, it’s not us;
your mind inside your body inside cheap motel plastic inside a trunk.
Whenever you see two women having tea,
I hope you think of Mother laughing at how much you suck with me.
Oh god Norman!
What a picturesque postcard hell!Two murders, three dead.
Death is tolling, tolling, tolling.
Death is tolling, tolling, tolling.
Send me a postcard from perdition.
Just kidding, don’t write.
You suck.
