We're perched headlong on the edge of boredom
We're reaching for death at the end of a candle
We're trying for something that's already found us
Wow, I'm sick of doubt
Live in the light of certain south
The servants have the power
Dog-men & their mean women
Pulling poor blankets over our sailors
I'm 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
- Jim Morrison.