A darkness grows upon that looming hill, Where beast and man, they seem to be the same. Those below, they cry with voices shrill, as those above refuse to feel their shame. The beasts above, they try to hide their fangs, they cover them up with their tongues of gold. The darkness above, overhead it hangs as many start to feel its bitter cold. Disgust, it grows among the souls below. The masks the beasts create begin to slip, And true nature of their acts, it shows, and the people see who holds the whip. The souls below begin to climb and rise so those above will have to hear their cries.