Sit down, my friend,
Have a glimpse-- a man in a suit;
Freedom, glory, and the end,
He speaks, out his mouth is soot.

Beckon by the islands-- a paradise;
Beckon by the peace-- doves, flying;
His mouth playing like notes; rolling the dice,
With a breath that smelled burning.

He has soldiers, whom he speaks of harmony;
Guns with bullets,
Rooftops on basements, dust as ebony
as the man's soul be.

He will lead us,
Towards a place he claims,
Where chandeliers turn to dust
And no more fires at aim.

Laugh, dear people,
Have a glimpse,
He now sits-- perched on ripple,
Of the skull he called devils.