Wow, Im 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 (And where were you in our lean hour) Milking your moustache or grinding a flower? Im 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 thats 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 youve brought to bed Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as ravens claws No more money, no more fancy dress This other kingdom seems by far the best until its other jaw reveals incest and loose obedience to a vegetable law. I will not go Prefer a Feast of Friends To the Giant Family. Jim Morrison
Posted on: Fri, 14 Mar 2014 15:43:21 +0000