Written by: carrington marshall


Tis our imagination
in the halls of the dead,
at a place called Limbo
where nothing is said.

There’s a great table,
where twelve often sit.
If your names mentioned
then you’re in the pit.

T’would be an invite
to dinner you’ll come,
with plate’s of gold
and lots of rum.

Do you feel the icy wind
of loneliness and despair?
Do you feel the spirit guide
holding hands at the fair?

Pretty one eyed lady
a stranger to me.
Oh! how I could kiss you
on bended knee. 
To all smiling satyrs
who watch children at play
We’ll find the grave
where you will lay.

Now the ghost’s are calling,
for its souls here I seek.
Death’s not that bad really,
just our body’s that reek.