- The Feast of the Beast -

The feast of the beast, at number six-six-six.
The guest were served well for the rest.
No soul left, neither saint or sinner,
of those who had dinner.

The wine kept pouring all through the night,
much as the blood ran deep.
The candles flickered just like the shadows of a ghost,
bleeding with the silent agony of most.

The moon was pale white, just like the pale color of the skin,
There was silence in the house on the hill, instead of joy and laughter.
No soul had left without a slaughter.
Departed souls had already left the great masquerade.
----
Oh, the feast of the beast was a grand affair,
with shadows dancing in the air.
They drank to the hunger, they drank to the flame,
but none of them noticed the inevitable end.

Tables were set with a quick fix,
at the house of the beast at number six-six-six.
The platters were heavy and the spirit poured deep,
for secrets that only the darkness would keep.

The candles burned down to a spark,
leaving the hall cold in dark.
The hand that was your host,
stood there alone like a terrible ghost.

The satisfied shadows slipped into the shade,
as the light began to fade.
No guests left to flatter, no wine left to pour,
The only one left was the hand, as he locked up the door.