Wow, I'm sick of doubt
Live in light of certain
South cruel bindings
The servants have the power
dog-men & 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
Stangers 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 & wanton thrillful
comes death on a stange hour
unannounced, unplanned for
like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed.
Death makes angels of us all & 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
& loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Prefer a Feast of Friends
To the Giant family.
Jim Morrison