With the grey skies over us
and with the so long-drawn chorus
of running pack before us
From the find to the kill
There is a spot still and dreary
It is a pillow too weary
It is so solemn, so lone
Grief forgets to heave a groan
Reaching and stealing lines behind you've found the comfort
Reaching for stabbing knives will certainly make you overflow
Read on the pages of her blooming cheek
Darker doom than my tongue dare to speak
I will turn my eye to brighter path through
the masses and futurity
I see the cloud and tempest near
The voice of troubled tide I hear
The rushing waves of wretched life
Bosom's bark on the surge I see
I CRAVE WITH A WILL FOR SILVER BULLETS
THAT'VE SWEPT YOUR BLOODY SORROW
THEY MADE THIS TOMB FROM LACK OF MOVEMENT
'CAUSE PART OF THIS RULE SAYS:
BLOOD MAKES NO EXCUSES…
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