Who wears the Broken Crown,
The King of Fiends.
Who wears a Million Faces,
The King of Fiends.
Who wears Hell Fires,
The King of Fiends.

Those hollow eyes of tortured gold.
Those foul horns of haunted mutilation.
The charred skin of mortal flesh
The broken wings of nightmare fuel

The blood of my blood.
The pathology of my pathology.
The beast of my beast.

If you want to make a killing;
invest in war.
Seems to work,
for Blair, Bush et al.
Those that follow
the hunger of their self aggrandised,
destiny's lore.
So, roll out the blood red carpet,
leading to the future's hungry jaw.

What do you want?

I was not born in to this world
to fix your mistakes.
I am not your second chance and hope.
I am me;
and me makes mistakes worth the pain
worth the chat and the laughter.

I am not you and
you are not certainly me.

I won't, however, make your mistakes.

I'll read to my child and tell them it's okay
to fall out of line
to fall out of order
to drown in the pragmatic questions
and breathe the pathological questions.

I'll tell them I love them
that they are not me
and I'm not certainly them.
That asking is knowing
and knowing is listening.
That been wrong is a matter of vocalization
and right is just a one route suicide nation.

I'll tell them right
without doing them wrong.
Take your pick
anything goes.

I want me.
Me might be wrong.