silent champion

Hail, the vindictive rain what falls

As the children scream at the angry squalls.

Hail, the trying, tempting snow

What covers young heart in escargot.

And Hail ye true that which calls you dead

For in truth it is the only truth said.

Hail this night, the wren doth shout, 

it’s drunken tendrils stink of roustabout.

Hail the dawn, though it kills you yet

each ray of hope a scantily clad regret.

And Hail ye true that which calls you dead

For in truth it is the only truth said.

Hail, the beast of the sea and forest

what know your kind; you are the tourist.

Hail all things that force your sight, 

what punch your brain and request your might.

And Hail ye true that which calls you dead

For in truth it is the only truth said.

And Hail ye true that which calls you dead

For in truth it is the only truth said.