To he who has understanding,
Reckon the number of the beast;
One-hundred and fifty years,
And each night I still feast.
The red water is all that drives me,
Only the crimson glory gives life to my limbs;
My soul has long since dissipated,
And this night-walker sings unholy hymns.
Memories of a young man have vanished,
His life replaced by an unending curse;
Killing everything that has held beauty,
It becomes my greatest curse.
