The angels that guard my crumbling tomb,
Are half-off-springs of an immortal’s womb,
And yet,
They await the day Janus will come,And resurrect me with reviving *** .

For the Virgins that fathered firstborn fables,
I was unadulterated darkness without its labels,
But unlike Angels that smile on Christmas proud,
I have wings that act as December’s shroud .

I can’t scribble a scripture,
Even for a bob that craves to be enticed ,
Let every hollow heart now echo,
That I am the reborn Anti-Christ.