Into the dark dark light,

we trek, my kings.

Be there, what? death, love.


The lack of justice, how high?

the last and final high.

Of what? rotten wings, vertigo?

Like sinners, march on.


March on! Not for books,

or the thrill, or the ever so provoking,

end of fucking time.


So we be what? Kings I say!

devils really, liars with crooked teeth.

So said that man at the crossroads.


So devils then, what now?

For do we take angles,

only to have our wicked ways?


What say God to all of this?

God, we question you! Fall!

down to us. Our hands, bitten.


So march on my sinners, my devils,

my kings, my Gods! Not for,

things. But for that one last brilliant

breathe, of freedom.