The Last Fancy Dancer

Tis a witch out of season,

on the seventh day

 

And you hear reasons chanting,

while running away

 

from you

from you

 

In her brew stirs an answer,

where memories lay

 

And the last fancy dancer

burns, looking to play

 

with you

with you

 

Your destiny boiling,

a cauldron of doubt

 

With fear running over

her coven to shout

 

at you

at you

 

Until spells of transcendence,

a broom handled waltz

 

Free dreams that start dancing,

through dungeons of fault

 

for you

for you

 

(Las Vegas, Nevada: January, 2020)

‘Rock Lyrics #122

 

 

 

 

 

 

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