In the dungeons we must find another way before he descends atop his crooked throne; with hungry eyes, thirsting for what they'll never own. But once a year we find resistance, some sort of static feed. Be this the birth of greed. Please tear my mind from this head. I'd sell my soul for just one last chance. One last look, which I will take. This decision is mine to make. In the dungeons we must find another way to calm the creature, now go. In forty years I'll have my new day. Disclose this to me, this second hand of new transition will decline my own worth. Bleed out upon me. In forty years we will discover our own type of sympathy but discarded from our rights. I'd sell my soul for a chance. I'd sell my soul for this ransom. I'd sell my soul for this dream. I'd cut myself and believe. When is my time?