A Feast Of Friends.
Wow, i'm 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.
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, blood-meal
For the plant that's plowed.
They are waiting to take us into
The severed garden.
Do you know how pale and 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
And gives us wings
Where we had shoulder's
Smooth as ravens claw's.
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.
Just another little poem i've always liked, courtesy of Jim Morrison.
Stolen but loved 
Jackie xx
