Jim morrison, Doors A Feast of friends

Wow, Im sick of doubt Live in the light of certain South Cruel bindings The servants have the power Dog men and their mean women Pulling poor blankets over our sailors Im sick of dour faces Staring at me from the T. V. Tower I want roses in my garden bower; dig Royal babies, rubies 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 and wanton thrillful Comes death in a strange hour U