What a life!
What a day
in the madness of your persecution.
In the cellar of your soul
the roar of heathens in execution.
What low spirits befall
the innocents lost in swimming.
To the bemusement of the crowd,
your team is finally winning.
But their virtues die slowly
as they sin behind the Glory Wall.
And the magistrate scratches skin like fire,
with his bloodberry twig made of wire.
What cunning folk, of medicine and magic,
withdraw the power of the Pagan
to see it rise up in smoke.
To ride it wild like a dragon.
With venomous hellfire on his breath,
he carries you upon his snout
and rages scorn upon your earth
The wire is cut to throw you out.
The road you travel is closed ahead.
The Glory sinners beyond are dead.
Now you must sleep upon your berth.
In the land of your undoing
You've made the curtain call.
What lowly sins befall you now
behind the Glory Wall.