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The Existential Gentlemen
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Devil in the White City
When I was but a lad
Back in the year of 1890 and three
There was a man who took the stage
And set the front page on fire
Perhaps we should have known
The look he gave that poor widow
Once, such a long time ago
With a gleam in his eye
And a tip of his hat
Just imagine for a moment
The scene forlorn and hopeless
A baleful black mass of
medieval torture trappings
suffice, it could not be believed
Blood Death and Magic
A story rather tragic
It's a nightmare, a fright fair
The Devil's such a debonair
He cured the fever
with rags soaked in ether
And prayers to the deceiver
Where did we go wrong?
There has to be some kind
Of deviance inside his heart
To have fallen so far
With evidence we'll know we're right
With evidence we know we're right, oh yeah!
Defiant to the last
In supplication to powers that be
A calvacade, a masquerade
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This man is not to be believed
We've seen the bones despite the prose
That flows like bile from this
Monster of west 63rd
He's a myth, what a fiend
Here's the facts that we've gleaned
From the combing of a castle
The torture doctor master
Devoid and defiled by the demons he provided
Shall swing from the end of a rope
Blood Death and Magic
A story rather tragic
It's a nightmare, a fright fair
The Devil's such a debonair
He cured the fever
with rags soaked in ether
And prayers to the deceiver
And in these silent streets
Eternity becomes us
For even though he's gone
The atmosphere's all wrong
As we sidle along
And the band still plays
Perhaps our human nature
Will have the rest of us repeating his ways
Do you believe in the sun when it's gone?
I defy you to remain the same
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