Testi:
Wounded Kings The

The prophets gaze on Akkadian skies Cities crumble, all will die... Last of the ancients beneath the tide Unknown grave from ruins arise Awaken from

Raise the death mask, from the Empire of the Sun Slaves within the ocean, time can't change what you've become Akkadian fathers, buried with their sons

With perfect prose and a broken nose, He beats the early morning streets, He's not a king or anything and he's felt like this for weeks, The rain has

we sucking it up Even when we get a job, we f**king it up Like it can't happen to us I could never be a bum Yeah right, you wound up one God forbid I'

come to clear the profane wound, And its essence will bear the sign forever, Invisible but primordial at the eyes of the Last, King of the suffering souls

in Cambodia with moter home appraisers. Pagans fade into the kodochrome now, later with a lid to brow staple revist the cobra landing zone. Molar foaming but he hold his own wound

MEAN A THING ALTOUGHT IT APPEARS TO BE THAT THE LOSER IS KING I CAN UNDERSTAND THAT WHAT YOU SEE YOU THINK IS REAL BUT UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE IS A WOUND

abominations of the read sea Rising the judge, drinking the vials of revelation The wine of whoredom reeks the filth that scarves us Followed by King

To reap this bitter harvest From the wound that never heals These hollow veins, the toxic nodes of man Disease twines therein Left me in sylvan enchantment