Jim morrison, Doors - 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 in 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 ravens 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 obidience to a vegetable law I will not go Prefer a feast of friends To the giant family