Each and everyone of us is satanic.
People look away, just to make it worse.
Afraid of an everlasting curse.
Rumors spread by the voices of panic.
Always dressed in the darkest black,
with wrists, scarred by self-mutilation.
Hoping that the devil will take us back
to his burning, horrifying nation.
Our art is nothing more than death.
In the paintings, in our music.
We sleep in coffins, the vampire's bed.
All these thoughts make me sick!
The style of choice is heavy metal,
to help us dealing with our inner battles.
Crushing, ear breaking guitars
and pounding drums.
Grunts and screeches that can dim the brightest stars
until the dreaded Antichrist comes.
Dracula isn't part of our family
who feeds on the misery
of the rest of mankind
who adored the sun, when it shined.
Outsiders give us a thousand names
from alternatives to creeps.
Those limited words can go into flames.
They're the media-adoring sheep!