A look toward a dying soul
Scatter in the ruined city of foul
Between the lines, and barricade
Like a madman, a fool
And pray, that locked in a facade.
As the banshee came forth
With a call of perished twist
A cry of avenue who lost
The hope that is neist
And exercise that is wasted.
Whereupon smoke and lechery
of the man who is tormented.
To sojourn in botchery
To not live, but fantasized
His willingness that\'s spilled.
To the sung of dying tree
That cradle him to free
From his gallows field
Hope that can\'t yield
And a promise of vindication
Now the time is near the end
There is no extortion to be sent
Where their shame faces, are faint
In the city that they taint
A poor heart, live in quaint.