You knock upon my door And open
I drink to you.
This is a bad trip,
somthing about armageddon
and pigs possessed by devils
flinging themselves from cliffs.
Look back into my house and I may turn to salt.

Blackened horizons itch with locusts,
whole pieces of earth slump
swallowed by the devils breath;
Yea as I walk through the valley of death
with Lucifer in the crick of my back
an avalanche of commands befalls me
and I whimper from the cross and catapult
in the childs hand,
clutching a lock of my own hair,
feeling the heat of the burning bush
singe the back of my neck.
Three score and ten years of this;
Look back into my house and I may turn to salt.

Where is the chariot of fire
where is the chariot of fire.
I, one piece of thirty pieces of silver,
a possessed pig, laugh at the cliffs edge,
snort and fling myself to the rocks.

When I meet Peter
I shall bribe him
as I have been bribed.

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