No Birds to Sing - with Crimsin

No shadow or moonlight on the bed
no birds to sing noiseless threads
or anecdote to raise the dead
from the lonely quarry
plunging without a splash

lifting the veil of putrification
and checking petticoats
seeing if there is a sapling
of psychotic obsession  
for the origins of the feast

the death march continues on and on
without missing a beat the reaper collects
his days due
the rest weep for the morrow
mourning their lost loved ones

hanging onto a corpse
burying feelings with the dead
it's all very upsetting
and the morbid hymn spins

no we are all in a mood
we can't watch on
and we can't look away
time delivers the dead to the river styx
the poor widow after, goes stark raving mad