the sickle who tears the night sky
and i wish i found you neatly sleep
under peter's tomb
all shall be doomed
to keep you quiet
-in silent mode-
completely mute
as gentle frozen dudes
for you know not to whisper
even in your prayers
you be the broken recorders
that chant the sham words of holy papers
kudos for the lordling over yonder
the crowd that slices the moon with sword
and worships it in a piece of shroud
