Born in a Burial Gown (The Polished Coffin Mix)

Sibilant and macabre Walpurgis sauntered in. Skies litten with five-pointed stars, the work of crafts surpassing sin. As She graced Her window ledge, an orphaned gypsy nymph. This issue of the forest's bed, skin flushed with sipped absinthe. Her eyes revealed as Brocken's peak tried once concealing Hell, a snow white line of divine freaks in riot where they fell. The circus lurches in, a ring of promised delight for seven days and seven festival nights. What wicked wonders lie within the comfines of the panther's den? She watches from a maypole on the rip of Her tongue, the restless spirit of Christmas to come. A Gretel sick of merely sucking Her thumb than gingerbread men. Spawned scorned, abhorred by the aerial, she was the light of the world going down. War-torn, forlorn and malarial, she was found born in a burial gown. Unloosed the chain of her God-given cross, seduced now pagan ribbons swathe her repose in a carnival of souls sold and similarly lost. Too many decades misfit and mislaid! So innocent, a tender legend of prey parades her second coming, now they're running afraid! Spawned scorned, abhorred by the aerial, she was the light of the world going down. War-torn, forlorn and malarial, she was found born in a burial gown. Now She moves with a predator's guile beyond the firelit circle of life. She soothes your cold heart for a while, then matches its beat synching in with a knife. She wrestles her dreams with a delicate ease espied by her cross on the wall. And should she awake through embrace or mistake, she would take Jesus. Blest foot forward and all! Sibiliant and at last the circus crawled away with another lover in its arms, dancing on her grave. Born, born, born forlorn, born in a burial gown. She was born, born forlorn, born in a burial gown. Born in a burial gown!