Standing Southward in a Westerly Wind - Let Flow Your Tongues

Deathless respite
In holy plague
Breathless reprise in cruciform graves
A pox on our house
An ode to our sins In simpering doubt, this stillborn prophet

Devout believers
Let flow your tongues
A torrent of ill bred conceits
Once bursting from lungs
The sky is frozen
The sun sleeps low
The carcass of air that we breathe
Delinquent and old

Praise be to G-d
Take my flesh
Praise me as G-d's last holy convent

Written by:
Sean Harold

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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