Texty: Woe Of Tyrants. Hail The Count.

Inflicting arms extended to
ground; outstretched frail. Able
bodies toiling in the fields
below. A heartfelt slap in forced
emotion, shaking bouts allow
incentive. There?s an invitation
passed along the lines up to the
house, the count will vacate
tonight. Glancing down one last
time, in hopes of catching their
eye and oh my, he does enjoy these
petty torments.

Look beyond
welcome, a fleeting peace as he
soars away northbound; a rest for
the weary. A fleeting peace as
the devil flies away. The torches
of nighttime igniting, there will
be no break from the labor now, as
the quota must be met. Behind the
wounds of the toiling pawns?
resentment, strain faced demons
overlook the land. The blind
mans? word rings an infinite
wisdom, senses empowered by an
overly sensitive hand.

They
best behave or they face an end,
immunity granted for only work to
bones extent. With the eyes ever
watching, ever knowing the rules
we?ve broken they always see.
With a stare into a pale circle,
we?re weeping and gnashing. We
remember the past, our families.

Look beyond welcome, fleeting
peace as he soars home southbound,
no rest for the weary, and no
peace as the devil feels
dismay.

Better behave, oh how
you must behave, a finger to touch
the scar upon your cheek. As
though sparked by the light cast
upon them, together they fault at
no dismay and their spirits won?t
be broken. From here I view this
as almost a dream, forgotten, I
fall to my knees and witness the
onslaught of peon divine. And we
must hail the count, in excess
you?ll be found, follow onward
round you?ll go it will not stop.
They always ask the question of
why it?s them that is condemned
and left to worship folly of man.

Better behave, oh how you must
behave. My finger will touch a
new scar upon your cheek