Vapor of the city mumbles round,
by the artificial trunks and the handmade shades,
sitting amidst the ants,
"it has bended away from the motorcade"

Merry, the angel whose wings still feel,
the hypocrite air and the tempting flame,
is rolling a candle with human hair.

Merry, she who sung the truth,
when he who parted left a truce,
killed a thousand for a sip to share

Then came Sulfure with a wounded palm,
she passed him the candle to make him dare
that both could bring an angel there,

And they smoked the world beneath the wood,
felt the nails pouring around,
When merry felt her insides loop.

Wicked was the feeble bug,
born in a vicious struck,
like a sun inside the moon

A sphere of cloud was stuck,
but there was none inside the womb
for she wasnt the one with the songs,

but the one lying in her lungs,
with his flute, he sang a tune
"I, am the angel of gloom"