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As I lay down dying, a floor for my bed |
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And a bundle of newspaper under my head |
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I dreamed a dream, as strange as could be |
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Concerning myself, and somebody like me |
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We were in some city, the stranger and me |
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The houses were open, and the streets empty |
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The windows were bare, and the pavements dirty |
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I asked where I was; my companion ignored me |
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We entered a graveyard and searched for a tombstone |
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The graves were disturbed, and the coffins wide open |
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And the coprses were rotten, yet each one was living |
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Their eyes were alive with maggots crawling |
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I cried out in fear, but my voice had left me |
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My legs were deformed, yet I moved quite freely |
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My head was on fire, yet my hands were icy |
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And everywhere light, yet darkness engulfed me |
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I managed to scream and woke from my slumber |
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I thought of my dream and lay there and wondered |
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Where had I been? What could it mean? |
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It was dark in the deathroom as I slithered under |
