It is a calm, a deathly calm,
the kind that brings your sweat to palm.
Stale air,
and eyes that stare,
when you listen to the tapley song.
The room is dark with settled dust,
with streamers of black that line the walls.
You can here the sickening ghostly calls,
endeavoring upon a sinful lust.
A bowl of punch, liquid black,
a finger sandwich with finger intact.
Party hats all lined in red,
from the blood of the comatose dead.
Eyes and hearts line the floor,
so that their orgies would slither in immaculate gore.
Men with men, women with women,
licking each others pours sores.
The music plays on,
on and on this taps song.
Playing so sweet in this soaring heat.
The music that's played when one is gone.
There at the organ,
he is the one that plays the tune,
upon keys made from peoples teeth.
He wears a hat that bears the moon.
and a tuxedo tied with a funeral reef.
Yes, that one there,
with the skeletal stare,
sockets of black, and without a care.
He plays the tune as if on cue,
then turns to say "Happy Death Day to You".
