|
I can think of a thousand ways to kill you |
|
but none so cruel |
|
as keeping you alive |
|
Ghastly horrific grandeur |
|
symphonic decadence |
|
violent strings |
|
distorted tunes on crippled wings |
|
So you og 'round and around |
|
to this, such a frightful overture |
|
a carusel of insanity |
|
and the clowns of the show are us |
|
Spread the great plague |
|
and death reeking with splendour |
|
rattle your puppet limbs |
|
to the orchestra's song |
|
A masquerade ball |
|
to which you have been summoned |
|
a gathering of the demented |
|
The clowns of the show are us |
|
the mad conductors |
|
of the horror grandeur |
|
you have gor the resemblance of a pig, young man |
|
and you shall have peace |
|
the prospect of death |
|
and the hope of hell |
|
the comedy is over |
