Two thousand fattened years like maniacs
Have despoiled our common grave
Now what necrophagous Second Coming backs
From the cradle to enslave?

Sickle constellations
Stud the belts that welt the sky
Whilst the bitter winter moon
Prowls the cloud, dead-eyed
Like shifting parent flesh
Under silk matricide...

Watchful as she was upon Eden
Where every rose arbour and orchard she swept
Hid the hissing of a serpent Libido
In an ancient tryst with catastrophe
Soon the be kept

Hear that hissing now on the breeze
As through the plundered groves of the carnal garden
A fresh horror blows but ten billion souls
Are blind to see the rotting wood for the trees

This is the theme to a better Armageddon
Nightchords rake the heavens
PAN DAEMON AEAON