Web of Wyrd - A Rosethorn by That Very Name Songtexte

To Mona
If home is where the heart is
I could not be more away
On her threshold broken
in the door-frame jamm'd
There's no gold over the rainbow
nor silver hid in the clouds
Thou art Kansas, Oz be hell
and I am damn'd
I wrote these words for
her whom they are meant
A doting letter better sung then sent

Lady, queen and princess
sweet tastes the oyster of that girl
Maiden, whore and mistress
until you choke upon the pearl
Mother, daughter, sister
where fair winds blow the storm's not far
Virgin, wench and infant

My heartfelt voyage I fear will end
at 'cardiac infarction'
As it seemeth this time Cyrano
must do without Roxanne

I found a free ticket to the
latest attraction appearing
on love's pleasure ground
But were not alone in the
queue (who sought action)
to my merry-go-round

She grows in brier, woodbind and chive
and glows as ember at firesides
Yet sleeps with hoarfrost in winter's bed
then trickles like dew on cobweb threads
The wish in wells when coins are toss'd,
a star somewhere for a vessel lost
Sweet tasted on the lips men kiss
This and yet still more she is

Guinevere, Arthur and Lancelot
drown hopes at the bar
On a 'relationship' that sinks
in the sea 'Menage-a-trois'

May the night forever whisper
of her passion
Let the moon eternal glister
in her fashion

That which one hold dear
one must set free
That philomel never return'd to me

Lady, queen and princess
the sweetest pome in paradise
Maiden, whore and mistress
my Eve a serpent in disquise
Mother, daughter, sister
from heaven far the fall to hell
Virgin, wench and infant

Once bitten - twice shy - third's the
charm, count forth and find the same
Watch the moth time and again
fly scorch'd into the flame

I sought to sow my seed
where greener 'tis grown
(the proverbial 'other side' this be)
Beheld the bridge burn
as I reap'd what I'd sown
when promised crops fail'd me

She sways atop the spruce with cones
but 'neath uprooted treestump moans
Tho' scented in the vernal air
still as autumn leaves she'll be there
As foam in flagons such as ale,
ours alike in mead turn'd stale
The bitterness of lips men miss
These and yet still more she is

Treaded grapes and gracious trulls
have not help'd me endure
For tho' heartache mayn't be terminal
that ailment hath no cure

May the night forever whisper
of her passion
Let the moon eternal glister
in her fashion

Her locks are wheat I winnow'd where
a tarn each eye darkled in there
At hillocks blossoming I slept
while far beneath stalactites wept
The 'good witch' but a witch still;
Jezebel, Juno, Judy, Jill
A rose by any other name
A rosethorn by that very name