I hold the moon the sacred pull of tide and time again. And writ myself a newer path asunder in my pen. Poetry is poverty as politics is pain. But I'd rather sell my words than ever sell my name. Gods and goddess in and out free me from the fray. And send these evil sons of spite upon their merry way. Lay the moon to rest again as I do beat the drum. And hear the heavens cry about what monster man's become.