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A Ritual Mask upon the wall
furnishes his surroundings
and he thinks that's all.
A Ritual Mask,
its power still strong,
a memento of his travels,
that he got for a song.
He got it for a song.
It was the song of the centuries undisturbed,
the song of secrets and power words;
the song of a culture not grown immune
to the virus of progress,
to the theft of the tune.
The Ritual Mask,
the evil eye
inhabits his apartment,
inhabits his mind
with a song of vengeance,
a song of a debt repaid, a song of justice,
a song of a hand unstayed,
a song of a culture as old as the hills...
that sits uneasy on the living-room wall
like a snake about to kill.
The Ritual Mask,
it won't take long
before he finds out the bargain
has turned out dreadfully wrong.
Oh, he got it for a song.
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Indecision and uncertainty
catch you now as they never have before...
how come you didn't recognise
the revolving door?
Are you going to take sides
on the chequered floor?
It used to be so easy,
you saw everything in black and white.
When you lost track of all the moves you'd made
you lost faith in wrong and right.
It doesn't seem conceivable,
look what's happening in your hand.
Is it just a trick of comprehension
or a master plan?
Oh, the change in your perspective,
from the gutter now you stoop...
how come you didn't recognise the fiery hoop?
How are you going to take sides
now you're on the Moebius Loop?
Now you're on the Moebius Loop.
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