And a one, and a two, and one, two, one two three four
Headless mannequin dancing on the tightrope
Girl with the glass eye staring at the boy
With the porcelain mask and the patch work dress
Under the ruins of a faded circus tent
Where the thorn trees grow and the black water flows
And only the ravens know its name
Nothing's ever as it seems
When you're living in the land of dreams
And you turn to find yourself but he's not there
People with their empty faces
Staring at a bus map they've been waiting
In an abandoned city where the moon never sets
And it only shines green and they've waited so long
That cobwebs have grown over their parti-coloured clothes
And Bella Donna is the only tonic
Nothing's ever really clear
When you're looking through the opposite end of a mirror
And your reflection gives you a knowing wink
But you can't recall
And it is at this point in our story, that the two lost souls who had entered the World Below
Found themselves in the midst of the feast of souls, a celebration honoring the lord of Dreams
It was after they had passed through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber
And through the wandering abysses of night, that they entered into a cavern
Where silver and gold were veined through the cavern's walls like a spider's web
To the right, there they beheld a magnificent feast table, laid out with all sorts of Comestibles
Anything that one could desire to consume
There was meat, there was cake, and bubbling and frothing elixirs of all sorts
To the left, there was a den of debauchery the likes of which this mortal realm had never Known
There were all sorts of beings, other lost souls, committing all sorts of acts upon one Another
And as the two children sort of took all of this in,
It became apparent that there was a pervasive, but subtle smell - a stench, if you will
That was lingering throughout the whole scene.
And as they looked closed at the feast table, it became apparent that there were actually Maggots
Crawling underneath the skin of the cake.
And as they looked upon the den of debauchery, it seemed clear to them that all of those engaged in the
Acts therein were more enslaved by their desires than they were freed by them
And amongst this swirling maelstrom of spiritual materialism, it wasn't until
A dancing bear playing accordion wandered by
That it became truly apparent that this stench was none other than the psetilence and Rot of the soul
Ayns! Tzvay! Dray! Fier!
Naked, painted harlequines dancing
Around a bonfire where memories are thrown in
To feed the blaze that gives infernal heat
But whose glow can never illuminate
And the wind weaves a lonesome tale of lament
That's devoured by the implacable night
Nothing's real and it's all play when you're
Living in the goblin way and you aren't really
Yourself but you don't care