| At the seething and fiery center
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| He sits upon his ebon throne
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| Within his halls of darkness
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| Which no man has seen and survived the vision
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| Both blind and bereft of mind
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| He pipes unceasingly on his reed flute
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| And the notes that rise and fall in measured patterns
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| Are the foundations of all the worlds
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| Ever calculating in sound the structure of space and time
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| Were his flute ever to suddenly fall silent
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| All the spheres would shatter into one another
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| And the myriads of worlds
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| Would be unmade
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| As they were before creation
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| The flute of the blind idiot
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| Both makes and unmakes the worlds in ceaseless
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| Combinations
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| Spinning on the woven carpet of time
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| No creation without destruction
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| No destruction without creation
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| To unmake a thing is to make another
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| Each time a thing is made
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| Another is destroyed
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| (solo: Dallas)
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| The idiot god on his black throne
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| Does not choose
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| What shall rise into being
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| And what should pass away
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| He cares only to maintain
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| His mindless unholy music of
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| Random creation and destruction
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| No living creature can look upon his face
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| And endure its terrible heat
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| And black radiance
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| That is like the reverberating unseen rays of molten iron
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| Which strike and burn the skin
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| Of those who would dare
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| Gaze into the countenance of the idiot god
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| Never does he receive supplicants
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| In his black halls of uncouth angles and strange doors
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| Nor does he ever hear prayers or answer them
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| Endlessly he pipes
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| And endlessly he devours his own substance
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| For his hunger is insatiable
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| As he consumes his own wastes after the custom of idiots
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| As the god creates
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| So he destroys |