Plague-ridden Old World to which we’ve isolated; recluse life for Our Lord’s
acceptance
Superior Order written to benefit the whole, and so our leaders coded within
Divided through most extreme tradition, cycles of sorrow remain unspoken
And buried inside of us all are horrors that stagger and persist
They still don’t know…
Soiled undergarments beset my sister, dark and alone in her room
Crimson adorns her bedsheets along the rigid frame
Young and old all about town bear unspeakable nightmares
Nobody is here to step forward; there is no villain to come forth and confess
Forgotten any true authority, so we act on our own
I don’t want to forgive. I want to taste the sin
Lynch the wretched
Poison their fields
Just make it so
Bring the bastards forth, willing or not