This man, a being be born of futile means.
Is apt a specimen of sordid mess.
Fermented liquor has his bloodwork grimed.
A hit and run mistaken, a never committed crime.
Now crooning a thirst so parched for incisions to be made.
Unto the skin of these sinners defiled a stench of his hate.
Slowly one's predeceasing in pitch black before another.
Inside this place confined, he torments 'til death waits no longer.
"O lord above! I prithee! Bestow me a vein of musing!
For I was faithful in thine apocryphal existence! That I have now regretted!"
Slowly one's predeceasing in pitch black before another.
Inside this place confined he torments 'til death waits no longer.
This man!

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