When there is no room in Hell, the dead will walk the Earth,
Moaning and screaming for vengeance,
Upon the god that doomed them.

The windows of the Old Manse shutter open and close,
Dancing to the macabre tune of the night wind,
And echoing the hoot of the dastardly owl.

The willow trees have left the grounds,
Uprooting themselves to flee the dark and twisted moon,
And mourn the murder of their Mother Sun.

The rotting fields tremble as cold hands caress the cotton flowers,
Leaving the headless stems to fall and die,
Sucked into the unspoken horrors of the soil.

The hell of the manse blackens even the day,
Festering in eternal Midnight,
As those who have been evicted from the Devil’s Palace,

Wreak havoc upon the Deep South.