The mayhem in your patrimony,
Enshroud beneath the centre tree,
Skulk behind hovering grave contours,
Spread thinly across the fatal breeze,
The mother to your tribulations
CHANT
[How they’ll call you
A child of alchemy
How you wade in the rain
Coiled flames
Like a chain, around your waist
You cut through the bedlam
Turmoil in the bedlam
The disease of thought.
I guess, I’ll always be wandering
Around the burning earth,
Calling
Did they ever love me
It’s the disease of thought
There’s a bedlam in bedlam]