Into the dark dark light,

we trek, my kings.

Be there, what? death, love.

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The lack of justice, how high?

the last and final high.

Of what? rotten wings, vertigo?

Like sinners, march on.

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March on! Not for books,

or the thrill, or the ever so provoking,

end of fucking time.

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So we be what? Kings I say!

devils really, liars with crooked teeth.

So said that man at the crossroads.

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So devils then, what now?

For do we take angles,

only to have our wicked ways?

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What say God to all of this?

God, we question you! Fall!

down to us. Our hands, bitten.

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So march on my sinners, my devils,

my kings, my Gods! Not for,

things. But for that one last brilliant

breathe, of freedom.