I danced with scorpions In the land of the gun The valley of the vultures where I lost my eye, and others lost their sons Where the lead spilled warlords blood the poppys drank it like opium growing tall beneath the sun. And men like afghan fields cut down by the changing times in the land where the spider whispered revelation into the ears of blood-frenzied martyrs. The valhalla of empires. They all go to die. And Kalshnakov, whose name, in another life, Charon, ferries them to any end they desire, whispering A good death is its own reward.