The Severed Garden, Feast Of Friends Jim Morrison The Doors

1978, An American Prayer Wow, I m sick of doubt Live in the light of certain South Cruel bindings. The servants have the power dogmen and their mean women pulling poor blankets over our sailors I m sick of dour faces Staring at me from the TV Tower, I want roses in my garden bower; dig Royal babies, rubies must now replace aborted Strangers in the mud These mutants, bloodmeal for the plant that s plowed. They are waiting to take us into the severed garden Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful comes death on a strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring overfriendly guest you ve brought to bed Death makes angels of us all and 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 it s other jaw reveals incest and loose obedience to a vegetable law. I will not go Prefer a Feast of Friends To the Giant Family.