The prophet spake In words of fire, Zarathustra spake, A fell deed, and dire. God is dead, he said, And man has yet to be, Always just becoming, From maybe never free.
These fiends, These rascals, Nay, say These regrets, In the path To will, to power, These things That time Never, ever, These things, Forgets.
Short one Memory, well, Then, have mine, These interesting Times, these rhymes, These stories told Again and again, Nothing new, Nothing said, It's so sad to Be alive in A land of The living dead.
The prophet spake In words of fire, Zarathustra spake, A fell deed, and dire. God is dead, he said, And man has yet to be, Always just becoming, From maybe never free.
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In words of fire,
Zarathustra spake,
A fell deed, and dire.
God is dead, he said,
And man has yet to be,
Always just becoming,
From maybe never free.
These fiends,
These rascals,
Nay, say
These regrets,
In the path
To will, to power,
These things
That time
Never, ever,
These things,
Forgets.
Short one
Memory, well,
Then, have mine,
These interesting
Times, these rhymes,
These stories told
Again and again,
Nothing new,
Nothing said,
It's so sad to
Be alive in
A land of
The living dead.
The prophet spake
In words of fire,
Zarathustra spake,
A fell deed, and dire.
God is dead, he said,
And man has yet to be,
Always just becoming,
From maybe never free.