Did you hide behind the mask of anonymity,
Hoping you’re inequities would be obscured forever.
It’s you’re naiveté that reclusively oozes from you’re feeble flesh.
Young Man you’re simply not that cleaver.
Never say never in the solitude of the nighttime sky,
And You can sit in a stupor and hide from Zeus,
When in the darkness it’s you’re time to die.
And bitterness will flow from the terseness of the rancid juice.
It’s innuendo and metaphor in which you speak.
The muses of Zeus will not leave you the answer.
And you sublimate you’re desires of you’re childhood consensus.
So ignorance festers unattended like a cancer.
You dance the dance of a ballerina up on the high wire.
With sadness to the left and terror to the right.
And the winged condor circles above waiting for the fall,
Into the darkness of the cold, cold night.
Euterpe will lull you into complacency with her flute.
As you plunge to the depths of uncertainty.
And your tears are of the tragedy of Melpomene.
In a black hole you will most certainly be.
So you run with the bulls in the streets of Pamplona.
While death runs at a frenzied pace.
The horns are at your back as the acrid snot drips their noses.
And Mnemosyne recalls the terror in your mind as you race.
Leon Russell sings a song of loves lost desire,
With some Old Crow and some whisky sour mix.
The soldiers are home from Iraq,
And the invalid are headed to Fort Dix.
Now you dance the dance of a ballerina up on the high wire.
With sadness to the left and terror to the right.
And the winged condor circles above waiting for the fall,
Into the darkness of the cold, cold night.
Hoping you’re inequities would be obscured forever.
It’s you’re naiveté that reclusively oozes from you’re feeble flesh.
Young Man you’re simply not that cleaver.
Never say never in the solitude of the nighttime sky,
And You can sit in a stupor and hide from Zeus,
When in the darkness it’s you’re time to die.
And bitterness will flow from the terseness of the rancid juice.
It’s innuendo and metaphor in which you speak.
The muses of Zeus will not leave you the answer.
And you sublimate you’re desires of you’re childhood consensus.
So ignorance festers unattended like a cancer.
You dance the dance of a ballerina up on the high wire.
With sadness to the left and terror to the right.
And the winged condor circles above waiting for the fall,
Into the darkness of the cold, cold night.
Euterpe will lull you into complacency with her flute.
As you plunge to the depths of uncertainty.
And your tears are of the tragedy of Melpomene.
In a black hole you will most certainly be.
So you run with the bulls in the streets of Pamplona.
While death runs at a frenzied pace.
The horns are at your back as the acrid snot drips their noses.
And Mnemosyne recalls the terror in your mind as you race.
Leon Russell sings a song of loves lost desire,
With some Old Crow and some whisky sour mix.
The soldiers are home from Iraq,
And the invalid are headed to Fort Dix.
Now you dance the dance of a ballerina up on the high wire.
With sadness to the left and terror to the right.
And the winged condor circles above waiting for the fall,
Into the darkness of the cold, cold night.