This morning I awakened
Hungover,
No overindulgence here;
The product of a season,
Not an evening,
So certain were we
Of victory,
But the bottle is empty,
And the whore has ravaged the safe.

I feel like the lone voice in the wilderness,
In my hemisphere of woe,
The party goes on
In the Pantheon,
Young sacrifices
Raised in sin.
Tympanic rhythm in the distance,
Latin, spoken in the fore,
Smoke from the fire,
Creates molten steel,
As mighty voices roar.

Such is the plan of the ages,
While goodness cowers in a cave,
As we enter an age of darkness,
Foretold before the dawn of days.
It is time for good men
To gather,
If indeed,
A score can be found,
To stand up for the weakest
Among us,
And defend,
Once again,
Our ground!