Saintly demons, clad in gray,
Ghastly keepers of dismay,
Burn atop the ancient mountains
Of the hearts of ancient men.

Then the dreams of men condemned
Would surely serve to thus ammend
The sinister diablo's laugh
That echoes off the hollow walls.

That laugh yet will not seal palls.
Mind the will of woeful halls!
Your countenence will yet deceive
Your goal, your self, your sanity.

Then come lords of vanity,
Order of Calamity,
That knock and beat upon the walls
Which hold back all unholdable.

Now the space is foldable.
All the world is unable
To combat your burning passion,
Dire will to complete your good goal.

Then you have it, and the whole
Of the Order reaches full
Into the essence of chaos
To pull forthwith your albatross.

Now you wear it as your loss,
Endless time your chronic cost.
Keep your treasures close to heart,
And gray-clad demons shall not start.