No Sails to be hoist in the Morning, 
No Way - just empty Horizons. 
And deaf is all Noise in the cold Spray, 
But loud tears what comes in Mind... 
tears what comes in Mind. 

Slow rot all earthly Shells 
Embrace a thousand Hells 

Alone in a Pit with the Demons, 
Engreased by festering Grotesque, 
Immured every Limb without Movement 
Long Nights 'till suddenly SmokeLasers light 
-'till Fires for the Count's Rise blaze bright