Welcome to Our Carnival

Ladies and Gentlemen, It is with Great Anticipation that We Present to You, Master of the Macabre and the Ace of Spades... Death Himself!

You wanted it gone so you gave it to me,
Two parts passion, one part misery,
A little concoction that you call your soul,
(Though I have heard Requiems swallow them whole!)

They cannot take care of,
But sure, they can guide,
They'll take you to where you'll forever reside,
A place without winds or the turn of a tide,
A stagnant and turgid wind that spirits ride.

They have no audience, they desire none,
This work can be done by them alone,
Bells ringing and singing under a grey sun,
Dance, compadres!
There's work to be done!

They say that their song has no lyrics but still,
We all know they sing to a dying man's will,
No instruments guide them in how they might spin,
They dance like four rivals with nothing to win.

The only ones watching have no need for eyes,
Though they see the man twirling, so graceful he flies,
No sound of a footstep or note to be heard,
No rustle, no whisper, no song of a bird.

They dance without music, they desire none,
This work can be done in silence alone,
No bells ringing or singing under a grey sun,
Just dance, compadres!
There's work to be done!