The Severed Garden

Artist: Jim Morrison

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 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.
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.