Another night filled with ash and snow
An old man next to a fire with no home
Yet he sits still singing alone
Hoping for others to throw him a bone

Oh young ones wouldn’t you care to listen
Listen to an old man's advice
To some I’m known as leviathan
Although those people probably aren’t alive

But sit around my fire now
I’ll give you some wasteland advice
On what your deeds can sow
If your willing to pay the price

Money, power, love, revenge, tradition
They all mean the same really
Bunch of people with a mind that’s troubled
Bringing up old ideas with a thought of reinvoking

“We will build out of the ashes of the old”
“A new world meant for the survivors”
“Old masters destroyed because we weren’t meant to obey”
“WE ARE NO LONGER THE SLAVES BUT THE OWNERS”

Such lies are shouted often and loud
Good intentions no doubt
But to bring peace and order, blood must be shed
Hopes of being the hero must be doused

In the wasteland your supposed to become more
Yet we’re shackled to the past
Leaders promising they have the key to a locked door
Vowing that to **** the old you must sign the pact

Industries of sin run on blood and dust
Shiny lights counting down to a payout
Behind smoke and mirrors you find lust
All of this guarded by puppets pulled by a payroll

So young ones, what will you do
Denounce the past and try to be greater
Embrace sin and forsake moral duty
In the end you will die with no gravestone

But that’s just what I have to say
I’m only an old man with no home
Maybe we will meet another day
On that day I will judge your sins

The nuclear winter fell on this place,
This broken desert glen,
And whale bones serve as carcass homes
For the very last of men.
Oil runs like blood,
Across the broken, lifeless dune.
They siphon it from ancient cars,
And howl at the moon.
Corpses rot abandoned,
With an X upon their palm,
Irradiated from the night,
They call the Night of Bombs.
One man who lives forgotten,
On the taste of human skin,
The man exists in all of them,
The evil deep within.

The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air,
Meshing with the scent of a stale motel.
The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds.
The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped,
Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents,
Who care little for the subpar shielding,
Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation.
The outside, which was once filled with children
Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life,
Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis.
Behind the front desk stands the concierge-
As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and
Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving.
"He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself"
Residents were once told.
Now he stands grey and hunched,
As his residents lay sedated and soft.