Take a look inside.
Tell me what you see.
And every hand that reaches out.
Hold it steady.
Hold it...
Life
is but a haunted,
as I dress the table now
I face the fools on the steps with a hound
Bars lie around the beckers,
wretched filth within the realms
Swords drawn for the harvest,
bloody limbs you'll poison through
Generational torment,
suffering you crave
Empty is but a sickness,
buried in a haunted grave
You fear what you own A tyrant without a throne
A coward that dies alone Spite is the hands on your throne
A tyrant without a throne
Deep in silence,
don't let me see
I know you can hear me,
from your hollowed throne
No
quieter here I belong, genuine in your song
Spite is the hands on your throne
Spite is the hands on your throne
Spite is the hands on your throne
Spite is the hands on your throne