The field is open. Say it while it can still hear you. They do not come as one body. They come as a count that keeps adding. Steel under the boots. Breath on the grill. I do not ask the name of the shape. I ask the King to name the end. Count the eyes. Count the tongues. Count nothing that will stand. With their many eyes, they shall weep. With their many limbs, they will crawl. In their many tongues, they shall plead. In their many forms, they will fall. So sayeth Space King. The March is not a rumor on this ground. The King is not a body in a chapel. He is the order the next blow answers. I put the blow where the prayer points. The form that will not stay one form learns the floor the same as any other. Count the eyes. Count the tongues. Count nothing that will stand. With their many eyes, they shall weep. With their many limbs, they will crawl. In their many tongues, they shall plead. In their many forms, they will fall. So sayeth Space King. Not for the medal. Not for the train. For the word that does not change when the body does. Say it again. With their many eyes, they shall weep. With their many limbs, they will crawl. In their many tongues, they shall plead. In their many forms, they will fall. So sayeth Space King. So sayeth Space King. Praise be.
