Work To Be Done, Here On Mars...

I have 100 bones in my closet, traveling in coats you hang from the horns of goats, destined for the Roman ring to fight lions, but you tell them to listen, and to eat Christians. You time traveling man, you unpredictable marvel of magic, you were born in the years that the mountains were alight, like candles in windows at night, you learnt your magic from Eastern gypsy mystics, and from books that fell to the ground as dust. I have 100 stones in my closet, borrowed from Solomon, I build walls and motes and castles, and I crown myself King, in a euphoric utopian wonderland, made from the sweat of masons, blood of fascists, and on the bones of dinosaurs.