Help me I'm in Hell, Help me I'm in Hell
Annabelle Lee is hanging from the tree
And I'm passing my season in Hell
There are no more footsteps in the snow where the roses grew
I've seen the silhouette of St. Christopher, a ghost that once I knew
Help me I'm in Hell
Gone have been the fireflies in the fields where they were falling
And St. Christopher's filling his mouth with the wings of blacker ravens
That I'd wasted in my calling
And Christopher's dancing, he's kissing alabaster angels
Tasting stone with tongue, Romancing things called dead
I'll find my time to kill him
He's the master in the end
Help me I'm in Hell
Passing through the windows, I open all the doors
And in the field the shadow falls of the hanging girl
Her body swings with particular sound, bleeding lips in sores
Eyes of jaundice, above the ground
Remind me much of Pearl
Help me I'm in Hell
And Christopher doesn't listen, Ballads taste like cocaine blood
Rasputin makes me wear his clothes, burning down the mission
Maybe he'll make love to me, eat the thorns, and leave an angel in the snow
Everything's fine if Christopher's silent--
The horns will never show.
Copyright (c) by M.R. Haden 1998
Reason for writing:
Both the reason I wrote and submitted it: Insanity.
Birth sign: Not entered
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