There's no formula. Why would there be a formula, Why muddle it up with signs and Figures and giving and taking When words do enough to draw a Coroner's bag over it?
All you can know is the beautiful Tightening of the Devil's hand on your soul, Which he has now turned into a stress ball With a witty or motivational saying on it. Some are smiley faces, But he crushes them all the same.
Too bad Libra isn't there to balance you out, Sort out the Good and the Evil, Your God and your Devil. Because really, we ride on a line Some would call razor sharp. The most difficult task throughout our lives Is, undeniably, the act of balancing.
Imagine this: We are all the King's Fools, We sit in the King's castle In the Grand Hall With wooden tables And beautiful banners to represent Who discovered and exploited And conquered a certain piece of land, And a certain part of the population, And a certain percentage of humanity.
And these banners are red and gold, Red for Passion, Gold for Obsession. And the walls are ******, Breaking themselves apart Like hourglass's employed grains of sand. We all balance in this hall On ridiculously tall unicycles, So tall that the fruit and assorted Desserts we are balancing on our clown's Top hats on our sweating heads Brush against the lion's tail on the first banner, The boar's tusks on the second, And sometimes the rose's bowing stem.
We do this all our lives While the nobility, Or the cosmos, Or God and the Devil, Or Good and Evil, Sit and watch, laughing and throwing themselves at us For us to catch and juggle whenever they please.