Irish Whiskey

Black the sky stands, laced with light strands,

Naked streaks and distant peals of thunder.

Here at last light, fed on mass fright,

Will rise a demon of the summer.

  Holy, holy, rolling o'er me.

  Child of savage born to ravage.

  Tribal eye fires your insane desires --

  Cloaked in the name of god.

Wash of voices, child rejoices,

Shimmering, bled pale upon the altar.

Weak of flesh scream strangely unseen,

Boiling in a frenzy of devotion.

  Holy, holy, rolling o'er me.

  Child of savage born to ravage.

  Tribal eye fires your insane desires --

  Cloaked in the name of god.

    In countless souls, some terror grows,

    That lashes out from fear or doubt.

    Each age in turn swears not to burn,

    And each one tries, and each one dies.

On this flyspeck lost in space trek,

Beat the ancient drums into the summer.

Hate speaks louder, fools grow prouder,

Stirring to the primal call of plunder.

  Holy, holy, rolling o'er me.

  Child of madness born to sadness.

  Burn your sweet youth for an old truth --

  Cloaked in the name of god.

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