The Story Tellers Waltz

Dark Cabaret, Viennese Waltz, Vaudeville Horror

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[Verse 1]
I keep my quills not made of goose,
But sorrows dipped in ink,
Each sigh you gave, each tear you loosed,
Is bound in leather shrink.
My shelves do not hold dusty books,
But breaths you thought were lost,
I catalog the way you look,
When counting all your cost.

[Chorus: Playful, but sinister waltz]
Oh come and dance, come dance with me,
One, two, three, one, two, three,
A quill should never sit alone,
Upon a lonely shelf.
I steal the ache you thought your own,
And make it for myself.
Beware the smile that greets you sweet,
Beware the offered seat,
For every grief you bring to me,
Is such a... tasty treat.

[Verse 2]
I do not want your golden crown,
That king had quite enough,
I want the moment you broke down,
That moment soft and rough.
The art is not in what you keep,
But what you cannot bear,
I bottle all the sobs in sleep,
And hang them in the air.

[Chorus - Whispered and Wicked]
Oh come and dance, come dance with me,
My captive, willingly,
I am a collector of fine art,
And art is agony.
I love intent, I love the heart,
That thinks itself so free,
Your sadness sings, your sorrow flutters,
Right into ink... for me.

[Bridge: Music box only, he leans close]
You wondered how you got here?
You walked in on your own.
You heard a story weeping,
And you made its grief... your home.

[Final Waltz - Grand and Chilling]
So lay your head, dear audience,
The tale is nearly through,
My pen is poised, my book is ope'd,
And now... I write... of you.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
Your grief will never leave this shelf.
For now you are my story, dear...
And I... have claimed... thyself.

[Outro: Cold chuckle, chair scraping]
Shhhh... you're awake again.

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[Spoken Intro: The Storyteller Himself, chuckling in the dark] Ahhh... you thought we were done with the King? Hahaha... oh no. A quill or pen should not sit upon a shelf, you see. I am a collector, my dear. Of stories... and of art. But oh, my intent? Wicked heart. So be weary whom you greet, for your grief... is a storyteller's treat. Hee hee hee... Shall we waltz? [Verse 1] I keep my quills not made of goose, But sorrows dipped in ink, Each sigh you gave, each tear you loosed, Is bound in leather shrink. My shelves do not hold dusty books, But breaths you thought were lost, I catalog the way you look, When counting all your cost. [Chorus: Playful, but sinister waltz] Oh come and dance, come dance with me, One, two, three, one, two, three, A quill should never sit alone, Upon a lonely shelf. I steal the ache you thought your own, And make it for myself. Beware the smile that greets you sweet, Beware the offered seat, For every grief you bring to me, Is such a... tasty treat. [Verse 2] I do not want your golden crown, That king had quite enough, I want the moment you broke down, That moment soft and rough. The art is not in what you keep, But what you cannot bear, I bottle all the sobs in sleep, And hang them in the air. [Chorus - Whispered and Wicked] Oh come and dance, come dance with me, My captive, willingly, I am a collector of fine art, And art is agony. I love intent, I love the heart, That thinks itself so free, Your sadness sings, your sorrow flutters, Right into ink... for me. [Bridge: Music box only, he leans close] You wondered how you got here? You walked in on your own. You heard a story weeping, And you made its grief... your home. [Final Waltz - Grand and Chilling] So lay your head, dear audience, The tale is nearly through, My pen is poised, my book is ope'd, And now... I write... of you. One, two, three, one, two, three, Your grief will never leave this shelf. For now you are my story, dear... And I... have claimed... thyself. [Outro: Cold chuckle, chair scraping] Shhhh... you're awake again.

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