The Descent
Do you ever get the feeling that you're falling through the ceiling,
That the revolution's over and your party's been defeated?
Yet you still stand there at the front line, with your pride and dead convictions,
Brandishing your tattered banner in the face of countless billions.
Screaming, railing, knowing that you alone cannot be beaten.
And you're pretty sure you're wrong, but they'll never catch you kneeling.
Your pride becomes your anchor, but you're savoring the feeling,
It might drag you to the depths of Hell, but you'll arrive there still unkneeling.
And when you get to those black gates that stretch forever, unreceding,
You'll hoist that tattered banner and march onward, still unbeaten.
