Selling lotions and potions, with no real notions
While traveling with this carousels carnival caravan
A million bottles of black....
With no answers, no cures, no promises, no hope!
Like dangling this rope, of self hypnotization?
Unable to see anything beyond their own day
And then, their own grave....
These salespeople, selling nothing at all?
Except perhaps, confusions glitter of glimmering dust
Sitting up their display tables of somewhat confined
Adorned with alluring and pretty pictures, of the well refined
Growing old and getting gray....
Living with no moment, beyond this day?
Selling lotions and potions, with no real notions
While traveling with this carousels carnival carivan
A million bottles of black....
Trying their hardest, to steal away the assurances and the dreams
Of millenniums of lives and souls, whom have believed
In something, beyond this valley of certain death
A shadow, which has always lurked in their mist
Selling....
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Black Bottles!
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