My words flow from his mouth like bitter gall,
who writes with wormwood ink upon the page.
Enscribes epistles great, in greatness small,
unholy fool, deceived, to fools a sage.
Fools, fearing laws they do not understand,
will seek my freedom, I, the lord of hate.
Their lives abandon, seeking in my hands
a life eternal, in my dark estate.
Their lips, uncircumcised, shall speak my name
believing it to be the name of god.
Thus they shall put to death those without blame,
who seek to sort the even from the odd.
I win the battle, best by never trying
the wits of those, who won't believe I'm lying.
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