The Masquerade

There's blood on the walls on the chairs on the floor

And the dancers should be quarantined

And the doorman departs after stealing a kiss

His lips curl into something obscene

And the dresses and gowns look like Dracula's sink

And the band's only playing one tune

And the king to the queen is nowhere to be seen

Having gone out to howl at the moon

Put gold in your pocket

Jump into the river

Sharpen your teeth for the masquerade

There's eyes in the punch and there's somebody's lunch

In a puddle next to dead bouquets

And the host is aghast as her compare at last

Thinks of something offensive to say

And the waiters hold platters of P45s

As their pockets a robbed of the air

And the masks are more kind than the faces behind

And nothing looks holy in there

Put gold in your pocket

Jump into the river

Sharpen your teeth for the masquerade