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• Artiste: Sycamore Smith
• Titre: The Congress of the Obsidian Eels
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In a dark and luxurious grotto Far below Crow Blister creek Dwells a secret society whose motto Is "We put the 'iiieeee' in shriek" They formed when the Pike City Half-Skulls Teamed up with the Silverback Royals This toxic concoction of rascals Was mixed by a man named "Atilla the Boil" ---- The signet is pressed In the melted red wax of the seal The Congress of the Obsidian Eels ---- Atilla insisted thier new name reveal The depth of their writhing dementia So he christened his lads the Obsidian Eels Though he christened with Christ in absentia... Atilla said, "Eels, I must take you Where the Crow Blister pitcher plants grow-- We'll pick 'em and swig 'em, then build us an HQ Where bottomless pits fear to go" ---- They eat Venus Flytraps They've fattened on cognac and veal The Congress of the Obsidian Eels ---- So one summer's morning at 7:06 They gathered around in a ring And they dug with their daggers and crowbars and picks And they didn't let up till the spring Oh, the caverns they cut are exsquisite-- Like the Tower of London, but sunken And the strangers who come for a visit are given A 40 year tour of the dungeon ---- The gas lights come up On the trespasssing fool to reveal He's surrounded by the Obsidian Eels ----- Atilla treats new recruits cruelly Sending them off to the grind To make bullets from lapis-lazuli Or to break rocks in the gunpowder mine Still, should they choose to recruit you To refuse them would be suicidal So just suck it up when they boot you and brand you And hand you your bit and your bridle... ----- And pull when you're yoked To the spoke of a stone-crushing wheel And welcome to the Obsidian Eels