When the gods left with smoke and ashes
Who do you think was there?
Six fingered dealers eager to show all their wares
Only the blind man knows the road
Only the faithful can let go
Trespa**ing the garden, lantern is flickering
Below the surface, waters are bickering
Aleister Crowley, there'll be no golden Dawn
Only the molten tongue of Metatron
You're just a cool spellbinder, shaking up a bag of tricks
And your house made of mirror, and your house made of sticks