twenty years from september the third,
50 years from make-belief world
My shadow will lean on yours,
Don't blame your darkest depths
with skulls of cave on the northern sea,
buried beneath your ocean of fear,
a part of you, impromptu,
to face your chill.

Let me start with tales of man,
oh how man stood on sand,
and told tales of ghost, ghouls and cursed tombs;
Man feared often animals, the plague, deforestation,
or the ****** expression of a wife's gloom,

And to tell the tales from parts of the dark
where hid bats and caves,
i assure you, men are fools and they made fake stories
of escapades!

Juxtaposing their wars of glory,
seems absurd beside their horror stories
and to tales that you heard as midnight fables,
the crooked shadow and destruction of heaven

And the puppets of midnight scare
that creep to you with a note of beware,

to the graves that pass after dusk,
and the smoke from the buried Earth,

I tell you are nothing, but Human!
No one is Satan but him!
No one hides in the dark
But darkness within!

Man fears only Man, i tell you lad!
more appropriately, himself;
but is a meek, a coward , a shame of pride!
To stories they have told of ghost, ghouls and plague,
Are stories of themselves behind the crooked chase!!

Impromptu is man's middle name
And to fear him is a question of why,

Because men **** men
And hide in dark skies,

Men **** men,
And in darkness they see their own eyes.

Impromptu, bashful men,

fear is their middle name.