The moon is merely a place to die
It's no gruyere or pizza pie
Cold and blunt as a maniac's knife
Like the lump in the throat of the executioner's wife
The moon is like love, if your love's gone dry
And the dust is as deep as a dead man's eye
Lend it your rogues from your prison cells
They'll ball like babes in the belly of hell
Gods emerge from its pitch black holes
Drained of power, grey and old
Straining to hear their pretty harps
But there is no home in the endless dark
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