Whispers howled against the ashen moonlight,

They spoke of both the mundane and erudite,

Blessed by the sinners, filled with unjustly delight,

Oh how, the commoners were paralyzed with coveted fright,

Though, no matter how great their fear is, our end is near,

Smoke complied to the night's wishes, as she too became austere,

Oh my, how my full moon is smothered due to their inane, but somber fear,

So, why is my future everything, but clear?

No matter how hard, my will will never be bent,

So let my body descend,

For what do they believe, that I'll go get ferment?

Because I refuse to give out a lament,

It calls to me,

Like an obessive, but desirable devotee,

But no one but me, could ever love thee,

But I will get my revenge, this I'll guarantee,

So let the mundane call me a heretic,

They are filled with nothing, but arrogance,

And with too much inbred hertiage,

So, so what if I'm not seraphic?

Truly, who could they even deny,

Deny the melodic muse of I, their beautiful Lorelei,

Isn't that what life is about, to make you feel alive?

Or are we supposed to live under a helpless disguise?

So, yes I shall go willingly, willingly to the pyre,

Sure nothing more would give you this crooked desire,

So go ahead, throw me in your hellfire,

Though, I promise that I'll do nothing but inspire,