Low desert sun, casts his empty shadow forward, as if to show him the way
Obligingly guiding him, across the land of the lost, beyond the break of day
Wandering away from all humanity, in a sackcloth hood for a leper's crown
Delirious with visions of the desert metropolis as purified as the ghost town
Eventide through night revives him, as he trips in sand, for his flesh is weak
Safely hidden, beneath the stars, to tend the rancid flesh on his rotting feet
Endless darkened dreams infuse him with wanion, as he peels away his skin
Revealing the corrupted beating heart of him, of pestilence, plague and sin
The dawn's ablaze with neon, drawing him near, like moths to oceans of fire
Shining like a beacon to the approaching, droning swarm of an unholy choir
Under his hood, watching the beginning of the end, he calls for rains of acid
Napalm and hellfire's falling, he smiles, for the smell of burning flesh is acrid
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