Tropic of Canton

And on the day we hit the hay
Our heads were splitting
Those brains barely gray
Conjured phantoms teeth a-gritting

No exorcist would
Touch that sordid case of ours or
Bring us some dog’s hair that we’d pour
On the burning wood

The fate of all which we adore
Rests on the balance
A foreign parlance
Penned on the far side of the door

Now rise ye faithful
Up to face those eyes most hateful
Repel that vile spleen
With keen devotion’s lustrous sheen