One hundred lives, one hundred souls,

Were enjoying a night of gladness and mirth.
In the stifling darkness, they were as blind as moles.
Even as Terror and Chaos gave life and birth,
To Madness, the child with six gaping holes.

The first two holes could be found in his eyes,
For he had none to see the rainbow in the night,
Emanating from the club, neither left or right,
But arching over Paradise through the obsidian skies
--A Paradise at Monotony’s Edge, powered by flight.

The next two holes were in his heart and mind,
For the spirit failed to think or feel for the future dead,
He had no compassion felt, nor thought that could be read,
Only voids of hatred and rage that crept from behind,
And twisted his essence-- forcefully married, forcefully wed.

The last two holes were his once human ears,
Now gone, replaced by scars that made him deaf,
Deaf to the screams of innocents choking for breath,
Deaf to the sounds of his own gunshots and fears--
But pointy-eared to the war-voices of gods like Seth.

In the abyss of himself, those fancies told the Mad One,
To destroy the pot from which the rainbow was sprouted--
The pot from which gayish wealth shone like the Sun,
To drive out the color and write in the scrolls for fun,
A warning to all with the blood of a future clouded.

--After the scourge, the massacre, the perverted game,
The elf-orc had destroyed the souls fifty-fifty, cut them by half,
One-half of him walked with his head down in shame,
While the other held his head high, expecting his fame,
But either way, praise would still go the golden calf--

Stained with blood, when it wanted none.