That night the mists on table mountain hung like shrouds on an autopsy slab and the stars above the cairns below shone like gems in an idol's eye and once more blue lights shone on the marsh and the tar pits gurgled in ghoulish delight by my parent's word was I sculpted “what has never lived can never die”
By day am I short and stout and still By night am I out of sight and mind as I cast my spells though they be not mine My words spill like blood till I fall I wait under cover of cast iron for the witching hour to arrive for then the dish runs away with the knife to heed the creator's call
Tip me over, pour out your faith blame your fault on some malignant wraith the simple truth is that this isn't true what you have blamed on me was done by you (Tokoloshe) Can't you hear them crying out for more? Entire species now obsessed with gore call me a demon, but I can see you all are worse than I will ever be (Tokoloshe)
I am a servant of the fear (taking form in your curse) given sight by the seer (and a voice by your verse) into the sky above Johannesburg (after the fire) servitor, sentinel, sentience at your desire!Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
