The Doors
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 J.D. Morrison & The Doors
They are waiting to take us into the severed garden Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful 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 shoulders Smooth as raven's claws J.D. Morrison & The Doors