Texty: I Am Committing A Sin. Grow Past Their Promises. Maxims.

Collect yourself as I break you down
and pull the thorns from your crown.

Once a pacifists maxim,
he who dared not to fight,
became a coulter-crusade marched
with his head on a pike.
Flauting empty graves,
morals, held entirely in spite,
Grew a nation from cess-pit
crawling up for the light.

Like pigs in squalor they're climbing brothers and sisters
in hopes that the milk trickles down.

To every skeptic selling sins to count on rosary beads,
For every indulgence that the well fed and the pious feed:

Under a cloud on Earth to stand on one in rebirth?
Bolted to wood it's understood that he's got no hands on me.

Inspiring hope we are betrothed to a chthonic ring.