Bald Mountain Breakdown
Apollyon has come and gone,
Old Scratch is on the rise.
He haunts your tortured fear of dawn,
your wretched reddened eyes.
He makes you hate the heat of late
that robbed you of your luck,
that kept you from a blessed date,
and stalled your pickup truck.
Beelzebub has made you drub
and beat your wand from fright.
His dybbuk rubs a wicked club
on your Walpurgis Night.
He cannot hide the evil bride
who tempts you to a kiss,
who rides alive your natal pride
but makes your motor miss.
The Succubae will make you play
until your speed is spent,
and when they sway your need away,
you'll know what love has meant:
it comes and goes and fades and grows,
its joys will show or hide
what only time shall last disclose
before the spark has died.
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