Wow, I'm sick of doubt
|
Live in the light of certain
|
South
|
Cruel bindings.
|
The servants have the power
|
dog-men and their mean women
|
pulling poor blankets over
|
our sailors
|
|
I'm sick of dour faces
|
Staring at me from the TV
|
Tower, I want roses in
|
my garden bower; dig?
|
Royal babies, rubies
|
must now replace aborted
|
Strangers in the mud
|
These mutants, blood-meal
|
for the plant that's plowed.
|
|
They are waiting to take us into
|
the severed garden
|
Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful
|
comes death on a strange hour
|
unannounced, unplanned for
|
like a scaring over-friendly guest you've
|
brought to bed
|
Death makes angels of us all
|
and gives us wings
|
where we had shoulders
|
smooth as raven's
|
claws
|
|
No more money, no more fancy dress
|
This other kingdom seems by far the best
|
until it's other jaw reveals incest
|
and loose obedience to a vegetable law.
|
|
I will not go
|
Prefer a Feast of Friends
|
To the Giant Family.
|
|
-----------------
|
A Feast Of Friends
|
| The Doors |
