Red Heaven

A palace built from the skin of dying angels
Red feathers falling down
The foremans furrowed forehead
Peaks from beneath his thorny crown

I hide my tears from his disgusted glare
As he criticises us sinners for our pride
He cuts some of us into a great wet robe
Then forces the rest of us inside

The Smith melts down liberated halos
To forge golden chains for heavens gate
Not one pure man shall share this kingdom
Nor one starving man his plate

In his sanctuary of screams and stitches
Rusted harps form his kingly throne
Only one woman shall play for him
Her fingers stripped back to the bone