[i. The Emperor]
[Verse 1]
Standing in the space
That holds the silent lace of night
Away from you
You think that you can hold
The searing, molten gold
Between your, fingers
But it, slips through, tearing
Tendons as it goes
Exposing the white of a knuckle
Flesh and metal forming letters in the mould
[Verse 2]
Cradling your gun
After choosing the ones
You think should, die
Lying on the hill
Crawling over the windowsill
Into your, living room
They stare out, glass-eyed
Aimless heads
Bodies torn by vultures
You are the man whose hands are rank with the, smell of death
[Verse 1]
Standing in the space
That holds the silent lace of night
Away from you
You think that you can hold
The searing, molten gold
Between your, fingers
But it, slips through, tearing
Tendons as it goes
Exposing the white of a knuckle
Flesh and metal forming letters in the mould
[Verse 2]
Cradling your gun
After choosing the ones
You think should, die
Lying on the hill
Crawling over the windowsill
Into your, living room
They stare out, glass-eyed
Aimless heads
Bodies torn by vultures
You are the man whose hands are rank with the, smell of death
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