Am Lo! 't is a gala night C Em Within the lonesome latter years! Am An angel throng, bewinged, bedight C Em In veils, and drowned in tears, Am Sit in a theatre, to see C Em A play of hopes and fears, Am While the orchestra breathes fitfully C Em The music of the spheres. Am Mimes, in the form of God on high, C Em Mutter and mumble low, Am And hither and thither fly - C Em Mere puppets they, who come and go Am At bidding of vast formless things C Em That shift the scenery to and fro, Am Flapping from out their Condor wings C Em Invisible Wo! Bridge or whatever - Dm Am C Em Am That motley drama - oh, be sure C Em It shall not be forgot! Am With its Phantom chased for evermore C Em By a crowd that seize it not, Am C Through a circle that ever returneth in Em To the self - same spot, Dm Am And much of Madness, and more of Sin, C Em Dm And Horror the soul of the plot. (I start playing bridge on the "plot") Dm Am C Em Am But see, amid the mimic rout, C Em A crawling shape intrude! Am A blood-red thing that writhes from out C Em The scenic solitude! Am It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs C Em The mimes become its food, Am And seraphs sob at vermin fangs C Em In human gore imbued. Dm Am C Em Am Out - out are the lights - out all! C Em And, over each quivering form, Am The curtain, a funeral pall, C Em Comes down with the rush of a storm, Am While the angels, all pallid and wan, C Em Uprising, unveiling, affirm Am That the play is the tragedy, "Man," C Em Dm And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. (Again, the bridge)
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