Super holds this breath of fire,
It laden out this mythical spire.
On trenches far from silent here,
Lay body mud under green hill moor.
As history allows us to play,
Forgotten spats not here to stay.
In all qualms said and done,
The preacher man recites his only son.
Promises are my main concern,
I will be there yet may not return.


O'Reily01032013