Worn, the diadem of suffering
Or crown of meaninglessness
Ignites the unending dusk and sets forth the mantle of perversion
From love, thick with blood it is inherited by the many hands of I
Worked tirelessly those folds, lain and draping
To both stifle and coax the growing numbers
Without eternal soul we are so moved by means
Trampled the pelt to new function
So from mire make the fur of benediction
Taken upon our coagulate body to form a great beast
All 7 heads and hands, ten tiny fingers plunged into me
Lest I should ride death reign less and alone
For father who dies on new year's day
To shoot the peaceful prince
To put down a horse with legs that are broken
And mend a broken fence
Lyrics provided by LRCLIB
