God is dead,
thus Zarathustra said:
He is killed
by thee
who do not fete thy fellow man mirth,
who feed off thy brethren dearth,
who do not choose their consolation over thy leisure
ye who do not hold thy neighbour over thy pleasure
ye who only groove on thine craft of costume,
and bury and knife others
strives of lives
and plume.
Thus, it is thy discordant god who is dead,
thy garbled god of dread,
the god of thine own creation.
