I am made In the molten flames Of Olympus
But even now I am stricken With a sense of dread
Unease floods me I could be standing At the gates of Tartarus And fighting Cerberus With chopsticks
But this strong perturbation Sticks to me Like fog on a river meander
My skull is oozing icy crystals Each thought heightened And though I have never lost I concede To a single thought No, an instinct: I am prey
And there's nothing I can do.