No fitting lyrics
No fixity of fate
No faith in empiricals
Autarchs and imperials breed serial killers and plant them among the populace
Paid populists reduce proud pulpits to dinsome soapboxes
Panthers slides among suburban planters, licorice hides contrasting white chrysanthemums
Phantoms below your blinking garden lanterns, hardening stare as you scrunch for answers
Crunch of ash leaves as below feet, sweeping clean of paths by unseen cloaks
You pray to Saint Francis, ask him for safe passage
The wrathful killer rinsing clean his blade in a stinking filling station sink
Lure us into labyrinths, music from ambulances choirs another dead lab rat.
Alchemisland 
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