Sin alas, without wings, Íkaros Zolagí, sicario -- hitman,
Italian assassin, carrying a dagger as ceremonial,
Not to kill with khanjar, it remains in its sheath like a Sikh's kirpan, grace
Alas, Íkaros falls, without wings, he tumbles back to earth from the clouds
Lucifer strikes a match to light a cigarette in Íkaros' mouth
Acting as if he knows nothing of the future, Lucifer eyes his watch
Sin drips from his forehead, without wings, sin alas, even the angels fall
Welcome to succession, Lucifer takes over mourning the morning star
Íkaros slept eyes wide open observing time pass as clouds in the sky
Tranquility, the sea, at base, pacifies storms, change disrupts succession
Humorous anecdotes of a prison on Crete tied Lucifer in knots
On water, the ocean at peace, the doldrums strike Daídalos like lightning
Under these conditions, a Vikings funeral for Mr. Zolagí
Turns a bonfire into a solemn occasion with arrows set alight
Without wings, angels fall, as if in rebellion, blackened orange roughy
Insult to injury added to misery, demons were once holy
Nothing sacred resides in this place, our workspace, call it a hell of sorts
Given the chance to fly, Íkaros took to flight, a peregrine falcon
Still, even Lucifer saw what no one else saw, the writing on the wall
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