A wounded soul leaps highest
I've heard the poet tell
'tis but the ecstasy of death
and then the breath is still
As I lay, defeated, I'm dying
longing to have you near
as I lay, defeated, I'm dying
longing to have you here
The smitten soul that gushes
the trampled heart that springs
a wearied ghost that keeps running
from where the torment stings

Mirth is the prelude to anguish,
lest some fucker spot the wicked
and do not fail to exclaim!
As I lay, defeated, I'm dying
longing to have you near
as I lay, defeated, I'm dying
longing to have you here
Success is counted sweetest
by those who never succeed
to comprehend a fame like this
requires sorest need

Not one of all those fuckers
who rose the flag today
can even tell the definition of fame
so pure, of victory