We live on this earth,

Waiting to die.

Waiting for Farmer Time to come,

In his midnight-black cloak,

With his silver scythe that shines,

With the light of the stars.

And he looks over his herd of souls,

And picks out a few spirits,

From the green pastures of Life,

Which he beheads with his scythe,

That has the power to cut,

To the very core of their beings.

Then he takes the bloody souls,

To the fires of Hell,

Where he impales them on broken spears,

And roasts them over the searing pits,

For his children,

The Angels and Demons,

That dwell in the fiery Abyss,

And the grey wastes,

Of what was once called Heaven.