Pursue anxieties through the arches Grand clothes, in all, proscenium Marks the flesh of fiction of which We wear in pride and tears, breaking At whimsy the sacred real. Born in That repetition, the rebel who rips With rage and striking tongue solidity All to null. We hold the soul of the earth In balance just as we know every second And intense authority, conscious of the body To mold the putty of your lives. Absurd boheme! But this magician This contradiction with no delusion of self As close as any man may get therefore To perfection in our nihil. Running, running all alongside The misted face of high Olympus And greatly gathering elements And crafting, as any god to waltz In history and awe, Absolute from Absolute None. Meet us when, meet us when All the words like leaves do die We’ll leave you with the seed of it From drama comes drama To drama it will go.