Thank you, Clyde!

They gather round the natal bed, the foolish and the wise. They fear the child yet to be born, whose voice shall rend the skies. The faithful watch the forest for the coming of the King. Their lanterns bright, they wait at night for the new world he shall bring. The dragon waits in shadows, his breath will scorch the land. The hero in the castle draws his sword and makes his stand. The princess in the tower is hidden far away. But nothing under heaven can keep The Groom at bay. They gather round with leering smiles, the soulless and the dead. Though her soul unwinds, the cruelest minds will keep her in her bed. The potter told his ‘prentice to prepare him seven jars. Six he made with grace and skill, the last his hands did mar. The cretin moon no more is howling, gone its mourning black. In their dreams its face is prowling, come to take them back. The King is in his courting clothes, the brides are in their beds. The unborn princes wait in sleep to raise their eager heads. The hens were in the henhouse and seven eggs did lay, till the fox crept in by dark of night and stole the eggs away. Six were broken by their bindings six no more shall sing. Comes the seventh full unwinding and all the bells will ring. When the first had given birth, then all the birds did sing. Her screaming cries did shake the skies, as she called out for her King. By doctor’s blade the second bade a life into the world. Untimely hewn neath a silent moon, the King’s red flag unfurled. His bride the third remained unheard, her cries for help ignored. She stopped her life with a surgeon’s knife, and gave it to Our Lord. The fourth prepares a dagger and places it at her heart. The perfect cure cannot make pure what the King has set apart. The fifth one’s crown was bearing down upon the fox’s set. The den was sundered with mighty thunder, an apocalypse beget. On the sixth’s day, the walls gave way, and the oceans turned to ash. Her birth gave work, as the earth shook, underneath the King’s fell lash The seventh bride will break the tides the moon no more will shine. There comes a day not far away she’ll birth the death of time. Don’t believe it when they say they’re trying to save her. Why would they bother? They’ve got exactly what they want exactly where they want it. The doctor never tells his god which one he really seeks. Instead he hides himself away, and quietly, he weeps. Their god’s own voice, he makes the choice, declaring with their word. “In fear and pain let her remain, lest she be like the third.” The doctor’s gun ended his run, as he put it to his ear. As she was defiled, the pitied child, he gave in to his fear. Her memory a fickle thing, the strongest shall endure. When her weeping starts to waver, their drugs make her mind pure.

Hoo, boy.....no they did not.