Dirt Poor Robins Behold The Grave
Behold the grave
Still as the nighttime
With crimes subdued by the earth above
No prayer can save
God's deaf to their plight
When debts are drawn nigh
Their pleas are shunned
Behold them here
These tortured grey folk
No comforts we spoke
Could wake them now
From this nightmare
Beneath their headstones
Last gasp of their hopes
Choked by the ground
We glory in our morbid post
For should heaven always contend
With selfish groans from petty ghosts
Or the endless lusts of mortal men
We glory in our morbid post
For should good men be burdened when
The wrath is stoked for hellish hosts
T'would be better they're forgotten
Behold her face
Her beauty fading
A grimace twisting
Her wrinkled brow
What horrors chase her
In this dreaming
Stop hesitating
The time is now
To draw her out
