The First Garment-Rending Supplicant's Chant

The spheres are cresting with...silence,Rolled out from the deep...tyrants, Intolerably sworn, rip rattle horn bugling Back, our bones for the dead.

The cavernous hordes...swilling Their pageantry back...our bourgeoisie, Booze swaddled lore of Revelry worn Pall-bearing our sins far away.

The thunder will gore...our humanity, Elemental rapport...of calamity, Flood-waters pour as they peddle noir As we swing in the gallows today.

This is really hard to read aloud if you were wondering.