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 T.V. 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 stranger 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 its other jaw reveals incest
and loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Prefer a feast of friends to the giant family