Weapon Of Choice

I wish you happy birthday beloved anti-Christ

Is Babylon your mother or your hired wife?

I know you hate your daddy, but you’re made in his mould

Gave you the gift of pain, Wrap in a blood red bow

You look like such a fool beneath that jester’s crown

Crowley’s got one too, as he knees before the throne

Your friends lie on their crosses, silver hammers coming down

Stretched out on a platter, with apples in their mouths

(dear god no)

My name is ambition, Sit back and let it slide

Fear, guilt and shame, like sleeping pills and red wine

I know where you live…

…watching you grow numb

Under blood, of the moon

Voices sing of your doom

and your weapon of choice