Master made a tax collector out of me,
Graced me with the scent of gold,
Fresh and stale and warm and cold.
The masses warned me for my fate to be
"The Forth Circle awaits, behold!"
In hushed whispers I was told.
But a poor, blind man now I cannot see
The price upon my head sold,
One more soul to collection old.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
Master made a tax collector out of me,
Graced me with the scent of gold,
Fresh and stale and warm and cold.
The masses warned me for my fate to be
"The Forth Circle awaits, behold!"
In hushed whispers I was told.
But a poor, blind man now I cannot see
The price upon my head sold,
One more soul to collection old.