The Festival of Sin

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Song Lyrics  |  House: Booksie Classic
A song of the downward slant of the human condition.

Submitted: February 19, 2015

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Submitted: February 19, 2015

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Ah, the witches stoop and stir their little caldrons

While the Warlocks pick the parts that go within,

And the Wizards take their place among the shadows;

Near the ballroom, at the Festival of Sin.

 

All the Mystics have seen the lucid visions,

Of the battles that no-one seems to win,

In the waters of milk and bitter honey,

On the table, at the Festival of Sin.

 

Stir the pots and keep those broths boiling,

Add those parts from a Jackal's next of kin.

We're all here to feast upon the potions

In the ballroom, at the Festival of Sin.

 

Step right up and spin the social wheel,

Your golden prize is a whistle made of tin.

Blow it hard, or it cannot be heard

Along the hallways, at the Festival of Sin.

 

Have a drink, they are always on the house.

Take a snort, your welcome to join in!

Call on Jane or give yourself a fix

In the ballroom, at the Festival of Sin.

 

Sanity --- has found some distant cousins

And those pills --- are taken just to win;

It's all legal, if you do not read the fine print,

Along the hallways, at the Festival of Sin.

 

 JEF --- 02-2015


© Copyright 2018 D. Thurmond, aka, JEF. All rights reserved.

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