Dancing with the devil in a pattern of four
The devil starts out simply;
Subtle tapping and counting,
Missing out the cracks in the pavement,
Racing to the kettle before ten seconds is up.
'"Merely habits, little ways
A child can reassure his or herself"'
Eventually, habits grow into mannerisms
As the child grows from two to four feet high.
Tempting fate by touching a hand thrice, instead of twice;
Dancing with the devil in a pattern of four,
Sprinting to the kettle before it blows.
'"All simple things, very common"'
It's not until the devil has your mind
That the tale begins to unfold;
When simple superstition turns to black magic.
He can conjure up beasts within a changeling child,
Compose spells that make the blood curdle and heart sink,
Charms that form into haunting words, ringing, echoing.
The warning is there and thus,
Mannerisms turn to phobias and embody
The likes of young ones
Too afraid to harm you,
Or too afraid to harm themselves.
The devil conceives a thousand spirits,
Their twisted skulls that haunt the sinew of every mind,
Clinging to a drop of blood,
As if it were poison, when in fact
It is the cruel antidote to every nightmare of every soul faced with a devil's mind.
They all trudge the persecutor's vicious circle,
A path trod for so long it has reached hell itself,
A road followed mindlessly by slaves,
Bullied by the brain to do it.
So are they pledged to walk their lives, forever more
Missing out the cracks in the pavement?
No more so than anyone else, perhaps,
For we all have the devil behind us.
A few of us can bat him away at first glance,
Some have to fight him to the death,
And a few of us invite him inside our ever vulnerable homes,
Childishly ignorant of his power.
But even we do learn of our eventual fate, and run away to seek cover,
We cross our fingers and count, wondering
When he will find us.
Subtle tapping and counting,
Missing out the cracks in the pavement,
Racing to the kettle before ten seconds is up.
'"Merely habits, little ways
A child can reassure his or herself"'
Eventually, habits grow into mannerisms
As the child grows from two to four feet high.
Tempting fate by touching a hand thrice, instead of twice;
Dancing with the devil in a pattern of four,
Sprinting to the kettle before it blows.
'"All simple things, very common"'
It's not until the devil has your mind
That the tale begins to unfold;
When simple superstition turns to black magic.
He can conjure up beasts within a changeling child,
Compose spells that make the blood curdle and heart sink,
Charms that form into haunting words, ringing, echoing.
The warning is there and thus,
Mannerisms turn to phobias and embody
The likes of young ones
Too afraid to harm you,
Or too afraid to harm themselves.
The devil conceives a thousand spirits,
Their twisted skulls that haunt the sinew of every mind,
Clinging to a drop of blood,
As if it were poison, when in fact
It is the cruel antidote to every nightmare of every soul faced with a devil's mind.
They all trudge the persecutor's vicious circle,
A path trod for so long it has reached hell itself,
A road followed mindlessly by slaves,
Bullied by the brain to do it.
So are they pledged to walk their lives, forever more
Missing out the cracks in the pavement?
No more so than anyone else, perhaps,
For we all have the devil behind us.
A few of us can bat him away at first glance,
Some have to fight him to the death,
And a few of us invite him inside our ever vulnerable homes,
Childishly ignorant of his power.
But even we do learn of our eventual fate, and run away to seek cover,
We cross our fingers and count, wondering
When he will find us.