The man I use to be.
Nor do I have any remembrance
of being loved, wanted, -- or free.
Anger has a way of changing a man
Bringing out the wickedness in his soul
Making him cold, cruel and heartless
With thoughts that no longer -- can be told.
Hate and bitterness become his breath of life.
He has no faith in his fellow man.
Soon the darkness in his life consumes him
Or becomes more than he can stand.
His life has no yesterdays nor tomorrows
Each and every day are all the same.
There is only pain and sorrow
But he knows that -- he's to blame.
But still his only plea for mercy
Is his prayer to die each night
For he's now just one tired warrior
With no reason left to fight.
But he knows there will be no pardon
For his life was destined -- when begun
But he has lived his life -- and made one proud
For now he's "Satan's favorite son."