Cries of a mortuary linger in the halls,
The dead deride the living, sinister in their gall.
A loitering moment, the souls confined to this,
A prison eternal, damned that one might miss
A ticket to pearly whims.

Is heaven here, or heaven there that one may look upon it?
To no avail souls wait and linger, past minute after minute.
Hope becomes a dated feeling which none wish they had felt.
The life they lived replaced with dread as mirth begins to swell.
That sweet sardonic cackle, the laughter of the triumphant pagan

Come now oh Peter, play your harp that mine ears may dance;
Sweetest patron Paul, hear the cries that call for your advance.
Alas alone in this rampart of the soul, the weary rest their haunted cries.
Quieting moans, a chariot approaches, its faculties brightly shining,
Hewn with the boundless gold of heaven.

Surely, surely these souls are saved, God's legions come at last.
A biting wind, the light grows weaker, Peter returns to pass.
A dream of eternity, gone with fading golden shores,
No more can these ducts spill their salty reservoirs;
A soul would die anew for that small pity.