King Arthur hangs his head in shame
For decorated killers and finger-pointing haircuts sit at his table
But it's not his table; it's a replica of death and tragedy

Confidential files scattered about
Yet their thoughts reside on one matter:
The death of all those who don't
The alpha of this pack demands deliberately thought out body counts

Yet one man has a different plan
One man wants a simpler course of action
Dim lights cast a blue spell upon them
This one man eyes up a big red button
With a skull and crossbones for a logo

He demands that the alpha uses his head
Or otherwise risk a global catastrophe that only affects them
This one man demands we use our heads and send out heads of war
Do you use your brain to break boards?

A deadly notion elevated to a tragic limelight
Heads of war that have no eyes
Staring at men, women, and children of another place and time
Heads of war that have no soul
Demanding those of others like the scythe of Death
And yet that very scythe has a purposeful master
For what purpose can be had in mass-reapings?

The men in their war room drink and laugh in the name of Ares
And Ares looks back at them unfulfilled
Unsatisfied
This is the war room
Where men choose other men to die and suffer in the name of the alpha