Quatron of prediction; it is not what's believed by me
I've partook more bitter ever since
Ever since the phonies kept babbling of morals
Ever since the phonies kept babbling


To each their own to each
Teaching what does not revolve
Itching at me because you are not real
I hope that someday you will see what is not
I hope that someday you can't see


Toiling brims of sin or not; I smite upon flakes alas
Alas my cynical undertone revealed each day after night and again
No remmorse do I own, grave away from epoch
I skirm when you speak of such feats


To each their own to each
Teaching what does not induce
Scratching at me because you are not real
I hope that someday you will see what is not
I hope that someday you can't see


Imaum of hate is true of my fate
How can you grasp what you are?
Where are you? Who are you? Do you exists?
We are inkligs of nothing, no doubt.