Send the Tramp Catcher, cosh the old man
Sink him in a barrel of gin
When he's all mixed and the bones turned to jam
We'll raise a glass kindly to him.

This dawning Epoch, this age of reason. An empire grown fat, ripe for the bleeding.

Hands are bleeding, raw. I scrub and scrub but the smell will not lift. How can I hold my children with these hands now? How can I kiss them goodnight with lips that have issued such instruction?

Fear is what keeps us all in our places, and the fear of the flesh, the ruin of the flesh is the greatest of them all.

I am sickened, I am ruined, but I will build such machines to contain this plague and heal us all.

Thrupenny sixpence sparrows and doves
See all the angels a-weeping above
there's no more forgiving, there's no-one to save
for today darling Lily goes into her grave