| The magic is black, backyard happy and fertile
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| For Kasso, the Acid King of the Black Circle
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| Same year Bowie dropped
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| Two horns hatched and matured to gore Northport’s '84
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| Here is '84: Mary Lou Retton, Excitebike, AIDS, Jeopardy!
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| Wake up the Orwell in me
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| Crack rock, anyway: seventeen summers in developing
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| Would it be the middle school or ketamine? |
| Guess
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| Left home in the dark
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| To curl up in a bear hug in Suffolk County’s arms
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| With a bevy of heavy metal records and leather bibles
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| More Anton LaVey than Saint Michael
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| More sherm in a Ford on bricks behind Midas
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| Fly with the pentagram pilots
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| Sabbath and Judas and all tunes prudent
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| Seems tame now, but then it was Devil music
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| Rick Six, the nickname clicks
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| Makeshift altar in a clearing in the sticks
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| Forfeit a kitten by the forks from the kitchen
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| With horsemen who drew the same symbols
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| Pitchforks waving out a grand theft four by four support system
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| Alas; |
| Angus on the ax in the back
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| Foreground offering a pitch-dark animal corpse
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| And backyard black mass
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| And a brash curiosity opt for grave robbery
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| To puff and pluck skulls at a cemetery property
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| Cops cuff him and stuff him in Amityville Asylum
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| It’s fantasy island for Noah’s Lions, at the time
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| South Oaks, but focus on the environment
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| And how it couldn’t loosen the Lucifer out his client
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| Who would flee
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| Pale moon, pale horse howling death
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| And LSD to make it mean more than it meant
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| Pay attention: here’s where the whole thing sours
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| And goes from intriguing to wowzers
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| At a party, a passed out drunk Kasso gets got for 10 bags of dust
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| Now it’s not a big town, and people have big mouths
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| So he fishes around 'til he figures it out
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| Gary Lauwers, seventeen years young
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| You have no idea what you’ve done
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| Track him down, beat him pissy
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| He got five bags back, still owes him fifty
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| Oh Ricky, Ricky, do we hound him for loot?
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| Or show him how the hellbound do? |
| Hmm…
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| Kasso waives all debts
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| Says, «Let's just go and get baked instead»
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| Two shake hands and the beef play dead
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| Though it’s more like a skeeter shaking a web
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| And along came a spider with two of his friends
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| It was into the woods, a delusional mess
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| Four kids dipped in a black hole bath
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| June 16, Kasso snaps
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| Off-guard Gary tackled and pinned
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| Sees Rick pull a knife from his jacket and grin
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| Raise that knife like a sword to the moon
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| Plunge that knife through a portrait of youth, going
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| «Say you love Satan, say you love Satan»
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| Lauwers ain’t say it, just cave to the facelift
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| Thirty-two stab wounds, gouged out eyes
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| Burns on his skin, not a cloud in the sky
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| Kasso had later explained he was told
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| By Satan himself in the form of a crow
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| To murder the kid cold
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| A part of a pristine whole
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| No, no, no, no, no…
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| And just had to brag
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| Until somebody sad just had to rat
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| Sat in a cell as a merchant of hate
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| Who would hang from his sheet before the third day
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| Some say Kasso was part of a cult
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| But I’m sure there was more than we’re told
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| More than adults or authority could rightly decode
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| Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s finally home
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| Kasso!
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| It’s starting to feel like a nice night
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| Hold close to the highs and the white light
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| Hold close to the good you are drawn to
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| These woods were grown to disarm you
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| It’s starting to feel like a nice night
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| Hold close to the highs and the white light
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| Hold close to the good you are drawn to
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| These woods were grown to disarm you
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| It’s starting to feel like a nice night
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| Hold close to the highs and the white light
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| Hold close to the good you are drawn to
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| These woods were grown to disarm you
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| It’s starting to feel like a nice night
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| Hold close to the highs and the white light
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| Hold close to the good you are drawn to
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| These woods were grown to disarm you |