That, made of clay and goddess' urine.
And rehearsing the covenant,
"A slate for thy labours, son,"
When He instated his king.
Kings, the real Satan on Earth,
Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.
"Scribe the name of thy LUGAL,
Scribe the name of thy NIN,
Scribe the name of the holly whores,
Scribe the Codes of the kings."
Scripts baked in the inferno of His hearth,
Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of his time,
The vast chronicle of man's history,
And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.
But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay,
But now the echo of our once-constructive material
grows distant, and muffled by the din of our daily march,
Oh' dear whisperer, and fellow universe citizen,
"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"
O' fellow scribes, Ye all:
Let's bake our souls in the same forge,
Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,
That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star
Scribe the name of thy NIN,
Scribe the names of the famous whores,
Scribe the rulers' vain attempts,
their plans in disarray,
while their actions weighing down
by the un-efficacy's decay,
Scribe in the modern style
And then baked in the inferno of his hearth,
Thus the tablets had set sail across the ocean of his time,
And through the vast chronicle of man's history,
And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.
But scarcely, we hear the echo of the past.
"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted indeed?"
O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,
Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,
That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star
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