Chat Ver 1

[GonzoStyle]

Wow, I'm sick of doubt
Live in the light of certain
South

Cruel bindings
The servants have power
dog-men & their mean women
pulling poor blankets over
our sailors
(& where were you in our
lean hour)
Milking your moustache?
or grinding a flower?
I'm sick of dour faces
Staring at me from the T.V.
Tower. I want roses in
my garden bower; dig?
must now replace aborted
Strangers in the mud
These mutants, blood-meal
for the plant thats plowed

They are waiting to take us into the severed garden
Do you know how pale & wanton thrillfull comes death
on a strange 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 its 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