I wail to the wind, "tread softly,come home."
As a martyr's prayers remain unanswered.
Chemical imbalance writing a tome.
and all the vicars burn the Hansards

A whip cracks idly, the flames lick the tongue.
Hands warm and wring, and Satan has his sin.
Bitterly encroached, subjecting the young.
We taste their demons, we pull from within.