'til somber lips would stir no more,
And skies find rest under the deep,
Combustion, Death - whose black pistons roar,
And wrest the breath from our sleep,

How Hell rode out from the mouth of the mountain,
On smoke and cylinders of flame,
And Death, he rose from the midst of Hell's fountain,
As Dark Prince to natural world came,

And coldness, it seeped from all hollowed out eyes,
And mists, they creeped through the trees,
And all manner of menace which mere sight belies-
Fettled hope to sickly disease,

But the world is vast, and in age surpassed
by none,
For quietly there sits in a strange forest glade,
Wracked and wrapped in webs he golden spun,
The trickster, the master - of shadows and shade,
Loosed to spurn the Evil one.

But the world is vast and still far away,
The weird fancied forest where Trickster lay,
And cacophonies of life ringing evermore tragic,
In an instant he conquered six thousand miles with magic,

The Trickster, The Devil, over inferno they faced,
Where their furious dance in fire was traced,
Where light would linger not to wonder,
What precedes the cloudless thunder,

The Devil, an angel, of power amassed,
Sighed not for the soul of the thing in his blast,
Yet the Trickster is swift, and deft in confusion,
Meeting Dark Prince's eyes with countless illusions,

Vast visions, and visions vast, vile - and filled with terror,
Some years and more, they battled for, that one would make an error,
Some years and more, they battled for, this very single day,
Of visions past, and soon at last, in rest the Devil lay,

Enthroned in rivers of shadows and shade,
The Devil by pride his doom had won,
For squarely he stood in a strange forest glade,
Enwrapped by webs so golden spun,

For the forest was vast, and its Trickster surpassed,
By none.