Somewhere in the office complex
There is a cult
That dances in circles 'round a fire no one set
Staring at the flame
They scream in chorus,
Chanting the words
In absentium of forest,
No sacrifice of birds
But they are really quite tame people
Unlikely to be chosen by the devils
For their work
I suppose that they just want a contact
In the Underworld's Potomac
Where the devils lurk
And their families at home know nothing;
The memos have told them nothing;
Their deception is quite complete.
No one in the office complex
Uses any salt
The only use for Wi-Fi is for recipes
For the potions that they claim
Give enemies their curses
Render useless locks
Until someone reimburses them
For all their clocks
But no one has it in their job description
To sell hallucinogenic prescriptions--
Well, at least, not quite
Everyone lists lies on their resumés
But none of them know anyway
If their pays are right
The one thing that they dream about
The escape they dream about
Is the ritual every Thursday night
No one quite knows
What they do in there
Pitched percussion;
Tufts of hair
Investigators
Have drawn a blank
At astral projection;
After that, they sank
The newspaper read that the members of the cult
Are all dead now,
But in the building where they once worked
One hears the echoes
Of spells sung in chorus
Of dances and words
The verses of Horace
The faint scent of herbs
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 8:46 PM UTC
Somewhere in the office complex
There is a cult
That dances in circles 'round a fire no one set
Staring at the flame
They scream in chorus,
Chanting the words
In absentium of forest,
No sacrifice of birds
But they are really quite tame people
Unlikely to be chosen by the devils
For their work
I suppose that they just want a contact
In the Underworld's Potomac
Where the devils lurk
And their families at home know nothing;
The memos have told them nothing;
Their deception is quite complete.
No one in the office complex
Uses any salt
The only use for Wi-Fi is for recipes
For the potions that they claim
Give enemies their curses
Render useless locks
Until someone reimburses them
For all their clocks
But no one has it in their job description
To sell hallucinogenic prescriptions--
Well, at least, not quite
Everyone lists lies on their resumés
But none of them know anyway
If their pays are right
The one thing that they dream about
The escape they dream about
Is the ritual every Thursday night
No one quite knows
What they do in there
Pitched percussion;
Tufts of hair
Investigators
Have drawn a blank
At astral projection;
After that, they sank
The newspaper read that the members of the cult
Are all dead now,
But in the building where they once worked
One hears the echoes
Of spells sung in chorus
Of dances and words
The verses of Horace
The faint scent of herbs
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