Maybe its hatred I spew, maybe its food for the spirit.

Men would rather use their broken weapons than their bare hands.

I was not born under a rhyming planet.

The most benevolent king communicates in your dreams.

Immortality like I have got well to be truthful the blueprints simply rage and youthful exuberance.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.

What’s here, the portrait of a clinking idiot.

When you do dance, I wish you a wave of sea.

I didn’t cry, because my anger wouldn’t let me feel for a stranger.

Men at some time are masters of their fates.

From the other side, what you see: a bunch of nonsense.

Look inside my soul and you can find cold.

Now I move with aggression, use my mind as a weapon.

Men at some time are masters of their fates.