The old ones were good at makin’ lives for themselves,
the back swamps of New Orleans
made some mean fuckers that never gave up.
They didn’t need those needles
or dead flowers to get by in the world
like the young today.

Far away in Fairyland
Where sea met gilded shore,
Ere sun and moon shone over land,
With blossom, evermore.

And in fields of scented grass
Two kingdoms stood aside.
Within a high, cold mountain pass,
There stood a third, astride.

In kingdom each was a hall
Of gold, of silv' of iron;
Three Houses raised after the fall
Of King Anelion.

Those kings were brothers from their birth,
And brotherlike they were;
They shared their sorrows and their mirth,
And stood together wherever.

My name is Damien Stryker
In life
A beguiling rogue ,born to royalty
Nary a care in the world
Believing in neither God or Satan

On a ride to my home
A road taken many a times before
My horse began to rear
Ah but what is this I hear
The trees are chanting my name
Voices drew near
Captured
I was set upon an Altar
As a sacrifice to whom

(Based on a story idea by Joe Kubert)

It’s Belgium ’44, the world’s at war.

The yuletide came and went, but brought no joy.

The Bulge is still a challenged corridor,

 yet with their progress troops now redeploy.                               4

And so the Private finds himself alone.

Awareness has returned and with it pain.

If my mind is ever present

and my solitude's a friend,

dark ideas lead to actions

darker actions, towards a trend;

~

a stoic calm is my exterior

never, ever break a sweat,

in the hollow of my inner being

I've this appetite to whet.

~

Within the chasm where my soul goes

a dank pulsating yearns to start,

tuning out the distant conscience

because I haven't any heart;

~

half the time I am the predator

in the darkness after day,