It’s midnight when the guests arrive
In costume for the promenade.
The common mass could not survive,
But we are of a higher grade
And so we meet in masquerade.
The plague came through some time ago.
We must do penance for our sin.
From here on high, the town below
Is stiller than it’s ever been,
The homes as dead as those within.
The socialites in gown and suit
Compare their camouflages bright;
The ballroom stinks like rotting fruit
And no one dares turn on the light.
The noble now prefer the night.
Our members dance with precious stones.
We live for necklaces and rings
That sparkle like the moonlit bones
To which our tattered muscle clings,
If one could call us living things.
The mistress of the house looks blithe,
With porcelain features soft and sweet.
Beneath the face her maggots writhe,
But there is little left to eat
For parasites that feed on meat.
The master’s never looked so fresh
With handsome garments far from mean,
Enough to bear the bloated flesh
That’s leaking humors white and green
He has no servants there to clean.
We raise our unfilled cups in toast,
For now the wine just falls right out.
We salutate our charming host
And all the creatures hereabout.
Here’s to the health we are without.
We’ll dance until the break of dawn
Before turning to the ground.
The people in the town passed on,
But there is no rest to be found
For those who were to this world bound.