O tilted God Askance, be praised
thou art who holdeth our axis.
Your warcry LIGHT! is, by you, raised
as we’re careening the galaxis
It is the cry that I am giving
when, in the morn, I’m sadly lurking.
Sun-demon-lights invade my living,
their shiny detonations working,
their energy is brain-exploding:
it touches me like caffeine!
There might of snow be a foreboding
but spring says: I shall rule serene