The Last Fancy Dancer
Tis a witch out of season,
on the seventh day
And you hear reasons chanting,
while running away
from you
from you
In her brew stirs an answer,
where memories lay
And the last fancy dancer
burns, looking to play
with you
with you
Your destiny boiling,
a cauldron of doubt
With fear running over
her coven to shout
at you
at you
Until spells of transcendence,
a broom handled waltz
Free dreams that start dancing,
through dungeons of fault
for you
for you
(Las Vegas, Nevada: January, 2020)
‘Rock Lyrics #122
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2020
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