The vermin roam the hallways looking for a taste;
They’re moaning to an eerie song as if they’re giving grace.
The vultures listen carefully atop a pile of bones;
The insect’s searches anything they’ll even eat their own.
The brimstone burns with fire fuelled by spent desires;
through the holes that once were eyes blows the cold of practiced liars.
The ladies with the magic touch will turn your heart to stone;
While the flesh is falling off of you exposing withered bone.
Torment rides a dragon as old as sin its self;
Cloaked in clouds of fiery red and known as khan the twelfth.
And when you open up your eyes and think you have escaped;
It’s just another magic trick from the waving of a cape.