It’s a lost brand. No fame to find.
No deluxe artistry, no quality bands.
To the hitless hitters music was a secondary choke hold,
limiting their curtail of all semblance of breaking the mold.
Murder of the light was their delectation, their demonic creation.
An angel in their sights provided the downfall connection.
Star maker celestials descended in my defense only to be rent and sore.
I battle dearly, Holy Father the victor and referee; totality the score.
by Saint Jerriè McGill