They said he made light and angels
They said he made some magic garden
So why do some angels live in hell?
They have clay skin and healing hands...

And no-one thanks them

But they keep helping
They receive no reward
Except pain
The pain feels like they stand in flames

And even in the smoke
He sits on his throne
No thank you, not pat on the back
Until the angels wither
And become black ash on the ground