My only orison is to the angel of death, the reaper of grim/
To make merry with thy blood, and lampshades of thy skin/
To snatch thee like a thief in the night and bury thy screams in the abyss/
And dark clouds glowing under the firmament/
Join that phantom of swirling air, encircling thy slowing gait, squeezing thine fallen hope/
For jackals to spill forth from the bushes to dance heavily upon thy grave/
And hatching locusts to rend thy coffins and cowards to become drunken upon thy pouring brains/
Beckoning forth the sole Justice, the vengeance of the Rolling Waters, with regal trappings of time renown, to come down upon the land and prey for thine extermination/
Under the new moon, it cometh for thee/
It cometh for thee/
Repent, my precious child/
Oh yes, it cometh for thee/