. . . and a greater feast for death.

[This came out of a drunken conversation with a bunch of Thelemites many years ago, and was previously published in Because, the journal of one of the Yorkshire OTO groups. To be sung to the tune of "Bela Lugosi's Dead," of course.]

Gold on white
silk hooded black robes
back on the rack
Aleister Crowley's dead
The goat's come out of hiding
the demons all have fled
the off white stains
have dried up
Aleister Crowley's dead
he's dead he's dead he's dead
the virginal whores
re-veil the tomb
the rose and cross have wilted
never to rebloom
gone back to that old Black Room
the Beast . . .

[much repetition omitted]

lege iudica atque ride