O’ Magnolia
sittin’ in the backroom with your Victrola
thinkin’ how the way things use to be.
Nothin’s ever quit as it seems.

Just yesterday you went to school
along with freaks in your neighborhood
and played the jukebox all afternoon.
Bob Dylan wrote your favorite tunes.

Behind the church out late at night
the hippies watched the bonfire’s light
and made a wish on the evening’s star
while singin’ to your sweet guitar.

For all the clubs you laid your head
“The Raven” lured the unholy dead
who danced to your haunting melodies
as you preached infidelity.

You should have seen those piecing eyes
or pallid skin which identifies
the hunter out for a cup of tea
within the game’s monopoly.

O’ Magnolia
sittin’ in the backroom with your Victrola
thinkin’ how the way things use to be.
Nothin’s ever quit as it seems.

Along the tracks inside your mind
the corpses linger till you resign
upon your twilight stage of mystic
you’ll turn the human’s ballistic.

So weave a spell through yesteryears
and hang your coat on the secret mirror
between the moon and horizon’s flood
reflecting all the righteous blood.

And hid your mask beneath the gloom
where all the flowers wilt near your tomb.
The shadows drink the descending rain
to quench the thirst of souls, inane.

She sits within the dark and cries
as the devil tries to sympathize,
while plannin’ his next move on the board.
Ever to wield his tainted swords.

O’ Magnolia
sittin’ in the backroom with your Victrola
thinkin’ how the way things use to be.
Nothin’s ever quit as it seems.

 
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