The needle in the eye of the hurricane
The poison in the font
The nail in the coffin of the profane
I am the lot

Maniacal the fire
That weaves inside my should
When dripping tongues of hate, envenomed, roll
Like carpet bombs in vast bazaars
My blood runs with the beasts
Though no crescent, cross
Or wandering star
Shalt witness my defeat

Born of jackal in the Vatican
To a loathsome flock I have crept behind the drapes
And a wizard there is not
Just a white flag blackened by
Singing weapons that have led
A faith that soon dominions over
Desert kingdoms of the dead

I smell the fleur du malcontent
The hellish stench
Of Judas in the dozens