My chords become swords
Tiny little blades
Floating around in the air
They’re made out of pure sound
Directed towards my enemies
Which come at me in hordes
I point and I pray
I get on my knees
I plead with the lord
Not to be seized
The lord is not pleased
But he grants my request
So off with my head
And now I can rest
For I am quite dead
Put to sweet slumber
On a blood soaked flower bed