The empty ones, they are our masters
ruling us like many sheep
they sing us stories of disaster
their hollow laughter running deep

in sorrow ever after,
earth is not ruled by the meek
but it is instead orchestrated
by a cabal of shady creeps

give us our daily bread
no more policies of greed
give us the means to persist
the furrow and the seed

here come the walking dead
and the lies that they believe
here come all their followers
who’ve been totally deceived

here come their screeching wails
their sobs and moans of grief
hear them scratching at the door
recognize them as they creep

give us no marked-time stories
that lull us into sleep
give us no platitudes
couched in grand surcease

give us the soaring skies
and forests of towering trees
give us the shining seas
give us only what we need

If you see the goddess, will you ask her
to grant us some measure of relief
to provide strength against disaster
and this torrent of unrelenting grief