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A feast of friends
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.


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Категория: Альбом The Doors "An American Prayer" | Добавил: JustMJru (15.05.2012)
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