The Last Fancy Dancer

Tis a witch out of season,

on the seventh day

And you hear reasons chanting,

while running away

from you

from you

In her brew stirs an answer,

where memories lay

And the last fancy dancer

burns, looking to play

with you

with you

Your destiny boiling,

a cauldron of doubt

With fear running over

her coven to shout

at you

at you

Until spells of transcendence,

a broom handled waltz

Free dreams that start dancing,

through dungeons of fault

for you

for you

(Las Vegas, Nevada: January, 2020)

‘Rock Lyrics #122