Alas, all of man is but a sick herd,
Slavers, master, it is no matter,
An illness of sorts has thus been incurred.

This disease was born along with civilization,
Developed along with its sisters, that idiot named soul,
The masters sent this bad conscience to every nation.

The genealogy of which, be strung together with pain,
That debt being constantly paid,
But yet, thy master’s efforts were not in vain.

The slaves of this game grew weary and tired,
Decided on the masters’ values to hand,
In their own cleverness they were mired.

These Jews truly did succeed,
The weak grew good, the strong more evil,
Thus, the slavish morals became the creed.

This, is where you my dear friend,
Entered into history’s bed,
To change the direction of thy individual’s ends.

You bland, philosopher of a fool,
Who sacrificed all earthly pleasure for some above,
To become the most useful tool.

Should I call you that my friend?
Or does the master of the opiate den,
Far better fit the trend?

Ressentiment grew far and abound,
But you, turned it inward,
So only in the individual could it be found.

Alas, I know all the gabble on sin,
But at least this sick herd,
Is led by a priest almost as sick as them.