What of me, says thee.
The bite, the sting, the flea.
I'll walk with you a little way.
I'll come and go, as you say.
The path we'll walk, is hell's own gift.
Through blackened grates, we will sift.
You gentle souls, of no ones harm.
You angels of, this lowly farm.
This walk we take, it shall not stop.
Our souls will be, it's final crop.
So let's begin, this foretold journey.
The flea begins, his final tourney.
Our souls shall meet, and say goodbye.
In smoke that's drifting, through the sky.
The bite, the sting, the flea.
I'll walk with you a little way.
I'll come and go, as you say.
The path we'll walk, is hell's own gift.
Through blackened grates, we will sift.
You gentle souls, of no ones harm.
You angels of, this lowly farm.
This walk we take, it shall not stop.
Our souls will be, it's final crop.
So let's begin, this foretold journey.
The flea begins, his final tourney.
Our souls shall meet, and say goodbye.
In smoke that's drifting, through the sky.