I can fly higher than A sycamore tree I can see further Than An eagle high, On wing I can smell the musty Garm Β that treads on Heavy paws I can hear the Tip tap of It's claws I feel the shadow Drift across my Grave I see the blind begger Shake his cup His eyes sunken Shriveled up I can taste the
Sweet mixture Of Young virgins full of lust Picking fruit For the harvest I feel hope slip I feel a tear fall Upon my lips Salty Yet pure Enough to stop Me feeling Ashamed For my senses Are heighten And I can receive The message On high As high as The sycamore tree.