There must be a place where I can bleed
the life of enemies I so detest
to bathe in their life so warm
to stare in their eyes as they draw last breath
a place wherein I command great strength
clarion calls aloud.
admidst screams of agony, the scene of mortal hell
where the reaping scythe cuts a path
felling nobles and peasants alike.
oh the gore, as the guts spill out
a beautiful sight, can't you tell?
The scent of haemorrage, like bitter almonds
the applause of crows, patient pickers.
and within the carnage, I feel alive,
on the tightrope, a hair's width thick
an eternal battlefield, where the only reason is one's own
then the madness, where friends become foes
the bloodlust too hard to sate
the brother, the fellow, the bitter arms-master
fall to the blade, one after the other
oh, how my sword will sing, the funeral march of all it stings
the symphony of man and metal
the conductor with his baton of steel
how satisfied, would be my soul?
the slicing sounds of rendered flesh,
of death cries and death throes orchestrated
a limb or two, what does it matter, for there is always fire
boiling oil upon the skin
akin to fried spuds on a spit
the aroma, how exquisite
the connoiseur must approve
a dish of fried fillet, with entrails like foie gras
trippings, and drippings, oh how mad I must be
the women, they come, they collect their children,
but oh! how I delight at their faces
to find that what's left are bones picked clean
not a scrap of meat left wasted
then my great maw itches, to see such plumpness
of flesh brimming with fat and softness.
A better master awakens in me,
and I find my chambers, laid out with delicacies
of young and old I did not mind,
upon death, aren't we all of a kind?
sadly, a dream, a dream I must have had
how could I be living in such a lovely place
where chaos and misery make my life to the fullest?
