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Rhizophora

de Botanist

Across the whistling winds
Comes the stalwart voice;
The ghost we knew so well.
And with a swiftness,
And with the fury,
Comes the fate we'll live to tell.

John chapman calls to the living,
To the arms of the unforgiving.
As cold as stone,
And bare as bone.
As the furnace roars,
We go, we go, we go to war.

Now the storm winds blow,
As the dark clouds creep.
And comes the fire
For our black souls to steep.

Now with electric eyes
We plot our course.
Fueled by fire,
We charge with force.
No mercy to follow,
Just a settled score.
As the furnace roars,
We go to war...

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