There he's coming from beneath of his pains, 
Joining the lines of men of his shadows; 
Marching along him, flushing the fatal echoes 
Though apart although the disdained. 

Then he rhymes with the hollow chambers; 
The chambers of his loneliness 
While the journey through the underground 
While smoking poison from the gutter's crown. 

And there beneath the rocks she comes 
And again the torrent hits him heavy, 
He juggles his hand on his heart and finds his country whisky 
And he empties the fucking jar but miseries. 

But there he gets the crossroads 
To the things that cuts him from home 
And he stays internecine in the sewer 
At the corner gulping agony. 

Then he stumbles as he walks through, 
Wanders and wonders if the reason is 
The whisky's on his mind 
Or the woman in his eyes. 

And far away from the god's place 
She lepers him like the field of floods, 
Sleeping on the lanes of faeces, 
But he fogs away from the Jesus' blood.