There's coal in the air, and so within my hair,
tar owns my lungs while char soothes my tongue,
gentlemens' coats float about bitumen moats,
and black steeples are of all that is dreamed.

Though their skin come from the deepest of blacks,
their heart's contortions trace them descendants of wax,
and when skin of theirs be pricked with small point,
darkness escapes from them and black road annoints.

Darker than any negro this world has ever borne or seen,
the cost for daily breath outnumber ten tens tonnes kerosene.
With all of this world being propelled by unmired desire,
the encoaled being drifts far further from Natura's ire.

All seventeen million colours spring forth from Hell's shadowless black,
sing praises they do of their truth, 'De Profundis! We never know lack!',
All actions committed of themselves serve only a single double end,
ensure all is permitted and unholy smoke Heaven towards send.

Many make gestures to transub black death into oalive green,
but do partake contrasensely, and so are guilty of simony.
All of our joys present, are fashioned of sweet nectar oil,
but it is not unpleasant, for our fellow dust to dust to spoil.

And something of great importance, for fool and wise to grasp,
this world would not be this world, save the many teats it clasps.
We must squeeze our mother dearly and we must wring her dry!
And so let her screams and wailing draw the curtains fly.

The screams of the mother, prefigure the horrid bleats of the child,
but there will be no breast to placate him, he will be neither meek nor mild.
But this same child will cut himself, and the stage will surely flood,
this baby will be quite surprised, to see not black, but flow of red blood.

Until this sanguine baptism, when what is owed is due,
keep suckling of your mother, and taking her body too.
A dying woman is nursing her child, selflessly, within her coil,
and she sends him towards Death, Famine, War and Conquest, but worst of all to toil.

There's sulfur in the air, and so within my heart,
Ash fills my lungs while fire soots my tongue,
Hot white melts the yellow of kings and fools alike,
and green fields are of all that is dreamed.