The stout is black, it takes the light, it hides the honest shame. Brewed from the root of bitterness, to justify the flame. It is the liquorice foundation, built on what we hate, A flavour only we possess, sealed by the hands of fate. This is the tax for living here, the cost of being brave, A truth too thick to swallow, for the comfort of the grave. No gentle hand, no easy word, no tenderness required. Just two dark souls who saw the end, and never once retired. This is the Pact! This Dark Embrace! The bitter truth that holds us in this awful place! You see the wound, I know the weapon in your hand! The common flavour of the only truth we understand! We drink the bond, the liquorice and the malt, Our shared survival, free from tenderness or fault! They search for weakness in the ranks, they crave a fragile love. But ours is forged from mutual dread, below, and not above. We share the silence, not the lust, the knowledge of the price. A grim, efficient company, a functional, cold vice. This closeness is the steel we need, to hold the line so tight, A dark allegiance forged in fire, standing in the night. No gentle hand, no easy word, no tenderness required. Just two dark souls who saw the end, and never once retired. This is the Pact! This Dark Embrace! The bitter truth that holds us in this awful place! You see the wound, I know the weapon in your hand! The common flavour of the only truth we understand! We drink the bond, the liquorice and the malt, Our shared survival, free from tenderness or fault! The world outside demands a name for what we share and know. But words are weak, the truth is thick, the bitter waters flow. We are the anomaly, the function in the fear, Bound by the taste of the Liquorice Foundation here. The foundation holds. The bitter taste endures. The Final Act.
