Tis the season of the crazies,
They cling to the rope of madness and swing,
Back and forth
Forth and back
Laughing as life drains away
And there lips turn black.
Tis the season of the crazies,
See them run,
Sharp objects ever facing forward
As spoken words echo through the halls,
"Run o little one"
"For the blade needs to be sharpened"
"Upon flesh, blood and bone"
As blood spills like a river bursting its banks
He writes on the wall, fingers painting
CLEAN ME, I'M *****,
Then joyfully skips down the hall.
Tis the season of the crazies,
They swarm in a ballroom of white
As a ball of silver descends and the
Shimmer of light perforates its shell.
Like moths around a flame,
Maddening randomness, clambering
Jackets of buckles and white.
They stomp on each flicker, till all
Is silent and one figure stands stained
In red as the lights flicker on and
Incoherent ranting spills as he scratches
At the patches that alternate between ground, wall and floor.
*"Tis The season Of the Crazies, come and play"