Flow those flowers of evil, callous
The nectar of them, bloody wine of misanthropia
Rivers of dogmatic poison in thine veins.
Thine church of Sixtus, glorious temple of Satan
Radiantly glowing in its deception,
Thine son, my father celibate
Inebriated by the cannabis of indulgence.
O, are we then your sheep unguided,
Left desolate to find our own, while
You shine upon thine Cross so high,
We look at thee, O savior of none
Through a glass darkly
Death, that profound philosopher, is my redemption
For in life, you were to be mine
Come, my glories shall, when you judge
For I have already judged
And you, my lord, are condemned to fiction.