© 1999 Lost Sipping from Denial’s glass To him, his burden was dead Never feared until it reared It's head Back turned to Father Time With an eye on the second hand As he caters to the Satyrs In his head His head Riding in circles On Lady Luck’s saddle Forever reaching for the ring Lost in the hall of mirrors Grasping at the air The Fates’ little plaything He sees flowers in the wreckage Of Mother Earth’s wrath Unaware of the vacant stare Of the dead Bridges burn with the Trickster’s fire Just one step ahead of the flames Without amends he watches as friends Join the ranks Of the dead Tries in vain to turn away The Temptress at the door A toss of the dice Rattle of the bones Once again, the House wins In this game of vice
