Hungry tyrant, with his palm full of gold, swears to God he'll never grow old.

But God is a cruel man, he likes to play tricks when he can.

For the tyrant is starting to smell, of rotting flesh that this world knows all to well.

His back always hurts, his mind always wanders.

Some people say where ever the king goes, death is sure to folloe along in his shadow.

Hungry tyrant no longer feeds. Six feet under from some unknown disease.