Оригинален текст
Who do you think was there?
Six fingered dealers eager to show all their wares.
Only the blind man knows the road.
Only the faithful can let go.
Trespassing the garden, lantern is flickering
Below the surface, waters are bickering
Aleister Crowley, there'll be no golden Dawn,
Only the molten tongue of Metatron.
You just cool spellbinder, shaking up a bag of tricks.
And your house made of mirror, and your house made of
Sticks.