Gypsies storming with gifts made of Christmas
Masters forming a void made of wishes
Follow me now into death and through sickness
I'll make you forget there's a kettle that's boiling
And reach for the day we can cease all our toiling
There's nowhere to run, or to hide from the roiling black clouds descending on you to start spoiling the meat that you reach for by raining parades I'm straining in spades to hear the wicked ways, and whispers of the clerks in vespers who stare at court jesters that laugh with professors. Oh, what a wicked world to inherit, while weaving the web for the fly just to snare it.
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