The drones are dripping honey
And then the Reaper scores
In blood and silver pieces
At the tower with seven doors
The Kings and Queens are dancing
In ballrooms made of gold
But in the narrow lane
A child is waiting to unfold

I hear the twisted echo
From the sermon on the mount
Be sure that you have balanced
Your profit and loss account
Beware, your soul is tainted
With sins of ancient mark
Repent and give your tenth
And then you can embark

Above the church and throne
The bankers lay their eggs
And from this nest of fortune
They trickle down the dregs
In places down below
We gather in the street
Fingers writing on the wall
While riot squads take seat

When time is almost ended
Within the broken bowl
The light is slowly fading
And winds begin to howl
In utter desolation,
In times of curse and woe
I hear a growing murmur
From each and every row

Copyright © 2012 Göran Gustafsson. All rights reserved