The silky winds blow us dry
To break our bonds
Break to the end, do they try
We are folks of wilthen
And we do not pry
Our dead efforts bear us no fruit
We hang our heads, before we shoot
At the birds, beast and fleshling all alike
The kin to mother nature herself, we strike
How many times do we wake an undead suprise?
How many places can you escape to, how many places to hide?
For mother nature looms your wary soul
A kind mother stewing you in her boiling bowl
Asking you not to falter in your persuit towards happiness
And not killing on your path towards it
Do ye seek redemption from ye euphoric nature?
Dazzled by precious metals of gilt
Sheltered by the ego under your kilt?
Carrying an untamable beast of emanation
Do tame it little junge
For your repute depends upon it
The sikly winds pass us by
Reminding us of our mortal zing
Breathe in that warm air
Exhale that benevolent care