I hear the drips, go drip, drip, drip,
And then I hear the lark sing nomore,
I hear the clamour of the banquet kings sipping, sip, sip, sip,
They are serving the dawn brew that seals off the ages.
In the forest of the tiger there is raining younder,
The rain which inspires folklore apocalyptic waves catapulting our fake hero,
Winds cold chill will excavate gold sunsets of grandeur,
All the hands reaching out and grabbing us.
I want to find direction to the cinema,
I want to destroy the horror of the dear mezmorizing walls of blood,
I want to find freedom mint in the shampoo of vanilla,
I want to ambush my own false move before it happens and climb lavish mountains until I bleed.
The coats of the mighty sailors washed up,
On the prostituted beaches like their decadent ships before did come, all sunk.

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