| The gates are closed, the bolts are welded
|
| They’ve left the red death far behind
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| In the abbey’s deep seclusion
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| There’s just beauty, there is wine
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| The external world is dying
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| Death is raging in the shade
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| No time to think about the terror
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| Let’s celebrate the masquerade
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| But who’s that stranger in the dark?
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| His vesture is dabbled in blood
|
| His masque shows scarlet signs of pest
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| Masque of the red death
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| The fete is held in seven clambers
|
| Triponds spread a gleaming light
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| Glare and glitter, madman fashions
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| Feverish dreams in the dead of night
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| The mighty clock strikes twelve, it’s midnight
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| And the echoes fade away
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| The crowd becomes aware of a figure
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| Dressed in cerements of the grave
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| But who’s that…
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| Try to catch him, try to gasp him
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| Try to seize and to unmask him
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| Prince Prospero foams with rage
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| But he cries out
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| And his death-shout
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| Took possession of the whole crowd
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| 'cause the red death entered their cage
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| Darkness and decay, and the red death
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| Holds dominion over all |