No Sails to be hoist in the Morning,   No Way - just empty Horizons.   And deaf is all Noise in the cold Spray,   But loud tears what comes in Mind...   tears what comes in Mind.      Slow rot all earthly Shells   Embrace a thousand Hells      Alone in a Pit with the Demons,   Engreased by festering Grotesque,   Immured every Limb without Movement   Long Nights 'till suddenly SmokeLasers light   'til Fires for the Count's Rise blaze bright