CARFAX By Neil Fellows
the tattered rag, the broken glass, the mist that hangs upon the hill,
the shadow of the clouds that still and darkly drip their poisons to the
to the will of one who drowned this place in blood,
brooding Count is loose tonight and how his moon drapes all in jaundiced
good folk rest, he scorns such dreams that warm their simple hearts.
by such things of day, one does not feel his chill,
at the creeping window frame he coldly waits
passing storms to draw some sleeper's gaze,
in the bolt behold his dismal form and weep.
is the place, the hour,
ever-running nightmare warm and red,
from a catastrophic throne,
from your veins by grim desires,
tastes thus served, he comes to claim his own.
shall not shun such eyes that ever thirst,
feel again your will outwith the master's hand.
your feeble minds are his and by his filling,
shall rise with such a beautiful despair
chills us all, the inexorable dying of the soul.
stay and yield, and I, Renfield,
lead you on to taste the sweetness of Carpathian soil