If then it be nice, rewarded you are twice. It afterburners cry, ten angles said bye, for too fogy your eye, in small stables we die. Ten chambers of black shoots venum into your back, for you show your true battle-cry. A look tward the sky and a glance to the left, a man with pail complection fell, and then crept. One eye to the maker and ten fingers to the dirt, you can't bare to look, it torments you, it makes you hurt. For you feel his spirit, his pain, and his struggle, which reminds of yourself who is clearly in some trouble. You face your maker completely with a final tear in your eye, for you too will tell an angle the simple two words good bye.