I know of a place,
where it only rains ash.
The sun doesn't shine,
it was swallowed en masse.
By an ominous void,
that's now stifled the grass.
I'm loathe to return,
but I'll lead you if asked.

We'll journey on over,
to death's little home.
Where graves fill the fields,
in neat little rows.
Not a songbird in sight,
just cackling crows.
Nor will flowers you see,
where the bone roses grow.

I'm the final forlorn scribe
of this desolate wasteland.
Imbibing putrid wine,
I keep a flask in my waistband.
Nothing strangles hope
like being living in dead lands;
alone I trod the globe
inscribing lines about deaths' hands.
The blatant lack of birdsong
has viciously twisted the sunrise.
Persistent existence with ghosts
has afflicted my rhymes.
They say you reap what you sow
I'm bound to ramble for miles,
scribblin dismally written scriptures
that'll scramble your **** mind.

I used to be a regular guy
got a little too drunk from time to time.
Generally, I think I was considered respectable,
at one point perhaps even socially acceptable.
However, all things must change,
even at a fast pace,
now I'm nightly downin bottles of bourbon to the face.
And it's scary, just how real it gets
I'm losing all attempts at eloquence
the second that this whiskey hits.
Nah forget it,
Just like Eve eatin the apple forbidden,
I'm livin in original sin and I dig it.
I'll keep fillin my lungs with filth and killin my kidneys
because I could give a **** if I live to see fifty

I fled from society, failed at human bonding
too fond of the Siren's song and searching
for higher calling took to lurking beneath
the surface, the silence is calming.
Tragically lost the path and got tired of wandering
so I put a spark to match set fire to the forest
and torched it to find I'd been encircled
by enemy enforcers slowly encroaching
upon my little plot of land, far from final stand,
just a part of the plan.
See this **** was specifically scripted,
a switch flips to see the paradigm shifted.
I'll have you dreaming up apocalyptic visions
of me leading legions of seething demons
who feed on the meek. Whatever fortress you seek,
I'll ******* crush it, sowing fields of decimation,
I'll water with blood from buckets. By estimation,
I'm judging you won't recover for generations.
My friend, I suggest you switch your position,
"The end is ******* nigh" and you better ******* listen.