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lyrics
La Mort Boheme
(Walter Cronkite, George Bush, and Clint Eastwood walk into a ritual…)
A tinted caravan
is coiled under Onyx skies
It weaves the wilds,
winding deep within the Forest’s bowels
Where famous faces,
every one of which you recognize
Are all encircled,
every one adorned in scarlet cowl
And in the center of the circle
sits a sacrifice
With 30 robed and hooded figures
stood before a massive owl
It’s face is caked in moss,
the torches light;
the flush of life
is rushed into its carven eyes,
as horns exude a wounded howl
And, soon,
there grows among the wealthy crowd
a thunderous swell
The feral mouths of power,
blackened words
on blighted dirt
They heave communal dirge
unbodied more than tongue could tell
A kiss of Saturns gas;
in Satyr flames,
the Grotto bursts
And, soon,
the CEO’s
will swirl immoral sarabands
And, soon,
The Oldest Guard
will bloom a grove of bacchanal
And, soon,
the truth of power
stares up from the bearers’ hands
And I would see too much
to ever feel like I came back at all
I’d see too much
to not return there in my every dream.
I’d see too much
to not see cultists on the silver screen
To feel like i’d returned
the same man i’d departed as,
who didn’t see the words of binding
spelled out in the autographs
I can’t explain to those
that couldn’t grasp the half of it
That didn’t SMELL that sacrifice
That didn’t HEAR the baphomet
You’ll never speak the words
If you can’t comprehend their alphabet
To hear the Ataraxia
that calls to all the rhapsodists
You don’t know the exodus
of all the earthly morals
The Triumvirate Trismegistus
would purge before the start
The invocation
ALWAYS was intended as a choral
And they carve you all but hollow
so its words might fill your heart
What rites they have,
to immolate and purge their worldly cares
So they are never bound by sympathy
To see or hear our pain
they can edit out
the screams of children
piercing through the air
They can bound it,
black,
in Muslin wrap,
and wash it all in flame
So, Cronkite, Bush, and Eastwood
walk into a ring of runes
While Longfellow, and Holmes
are lying, buried, in Mount Auburn
they cry aloud “Cremation!”
neath a silver sylvan moon
and set their effigy ablaze
that it may satisfy their sovereign
An offering to providence
Presented in a coffin
By those who rose to prominence
through War and Entertainment
The Gala glow of Pageantry
that hides a private auction
That we don’t need attend
because we’re there in form of payment
Maybe that’s their whole arrangement,
made to keep the dream alive,
Perpetuate enslavement,
and still find a way to sleep at night
Now we know the measures that they’ll take,
and WHAT THEY DEIFY
Never break the chain,
and don’t let Cheney near the Hematite
Somewhere beneath the gaping onyx sky
Where a beast was brought to raucous life
that never truly dies
An Owl is standing vigil
at an altar in a grove
And the hoods
all cover faces
that you know.
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