Welcome, Saints and Populists,
to my godless gathering.
Been waiting for the Antichrist
and I'm now out of suffering.
The battlefield is all but ready,
set to beat him and be done
waste up every lonely century
It's me, my own Armageddon.
Why's the salt so unsavoury?
Can't Souls hide on that rocky hill?
But, why are they still wavering?
It's not a Shroud! - a simple quilt.
Why's this Last one not yet First,
but leads the packs of pure stupidity?
And why is there this bloody thirst
for dead and buried immortality?
God, have no faith in peons eager,
who live when gods do not exist,
and then they write the measly, meagre
Godly Biddings of a foolish novelist.