Changeling

Changeling 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.