Testo Autocrator

As a beast who steals itself away at night
From the fields of other fatted kine
Who relishes the ripe fruit of his own distinction
Without the slavering of lips of swine

No mere matter of poor words
He who crafts his own laws
Whose right is lucid yet shadowed Remaining unbroken by wars

Onward, onward to supremacy

The reins he seizes of serpents
Decisive, resolved in his will
Who scorns the fangs of concession
Beyond the sphere of thralls

This heir to rule carries a rope, nourished by his own deeds
To where those in toil dissipate their futile years
With hammer and saw, constructing their own gallows
Taking abode in oblivion’s hands
Heirs, heirs to but loam
Heirs, heirs to death