More the I drink,
The less you do,
So Death is walking with you,
And walking with you,
All alone,
The hate you breed is made for one,
And the drink you took was made for fun, So why is it,
you are alone?
Two hearts or three,
The more the strength,
Two tongues at least,
Should be the length,
The blood it needs to be pure red,
The worse it is to use the dead,
Don’t fail to use the ***** flail,
With rust and mold and hair assailed,
Then spit on dirt and churn the mesh,
For bone will rot like all the rest.
And death will take with curse and sail
And whisk you off to your own hell,
This curse is made with hate and power,
With all four corners,
And angels power,
Don’t doubt the strength,
Of birth and death,
The first and last,
Will be your breath.