They said some men were born a prophet
Some martyr in pursue of word and life
others were made by the tussles of life
these arose with a strange mantle
the ability to prophecy between the meadow
hung on the crested boots of lady Diana
Theirs were peculiar
They tarry in beds of whoredom and prophecy
at dawn they arose with songs of endless moaning
Singing across the beating tides of sin
Awoken by passions as Lucy engulf their souls
Man of rumbles, city of lust and shambles
Yesterday we found these new prophets welcome abode
as the new puppets of Hell
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