There's blood on the walls, on the chairs, on the floors
And the dancers should be quarantined
The doorman departs after stealing a kiss
His lips curl into something obscene
And the dresses and gowns look like Dracula's sink
And the band's only playing one tune
And the king to the queen is nowhere to be seen
Having gone out to howl at the moon

Put gold in your pocket, jump into the river, sharpen your teeth for the masquerade

And there's eyes in the punch and there's somebody's lunch
In a puddle next to the dead bouquets
The host is aghast as the compare at last
Thinks of something offensive to say
And the waiters hold platters of p45's as their pockets are robbed of the air
The masks are more kind than the faces behind
And nothing looks holy in there

Put your gold in your pocket, jump into the river, sharpen your teeth for the masquerade