We walked outside to begin the dawn
and the games and the Dance of Bones,
and everywhere sightless saints were drawn
from the faithless embrace of their homes.
And they come in threes, in pairs, as one
and scream like cicadas in trance.
And the rhythms are those you know too well
and they're waiting for you in the Dance
Whirlwind in a Tilt-a-Whirl,
it's a dizzy, busy world.
Buzz, buzz in a fog of fuzz,
we're the voices of the hive
and to the end, if you please,
my friend to gift you these,
my gray sensibilities.
The Jester is turgid with wisdom
and the Scholar is learning to think;
the singular's starting to multiply
and the thirsty beginning to drink.
Come, let's make a wager on destiny,
while mouthing a toast to chance.
Then tell me how much you love me.
It's all just a prelude to the Dance.
Whirlwind in a Tilt-a-Whirl,
it's a dizzy, busy world.
Buzz, buzz in a fog of fuzz,
we're the voices of the hive
and to the end, if you please,
my friend to gift you these,
my gray sensibilities.
Screaming sculptors of fire
drowned out by the static.
Which one of us dares to quell
the storms raging in his attic?
And on the horizon, giants
beckon me back inside a sleep
of inconsequence.
Deep calling unto deep,
flame calling unto flame,
never the two to meet.
Whirlwind in a Tilt-a-Whirl,
it's a dizzy, busy world.
Buzz, buzz in a fog of fuzz,
we're the voices of the hive
and to the end, if you please,
my friend to gift you these,
my gray sensibilities.
I wandered among the gathered guests,
smelling the charcoal smoke.
I stood and ate my piece of flesh,
and dropped the bones in the fire.
And I ambled out across the field,
tasting the taste of that chicken's leg,
wondering which had been the first to go,
the chicken or the egg.
Screaming sculptors of fire
drowned out by the static.
Which one of us dares to quell
the storms raging in his attic?
And on the horizon, giants
beckon me back inside a sleep
of inconsequence.
Deep calling unto deep,
flame calling unto flame,
never the two to meet.
Whirlwind in a Tilt-a-Whirl,
it's a dizzy, busy world.
Buzz, buzz in a fog of fuzz,
we're the voices of the hive
and to the end, if you please,
my friend to gift you these,
my gray sensibilities.
