There is no glory here for me
The victory flame is quenched
No more the striving, driving fight,
in perspiration drenched
No more the laurel crown
that wreathes the winner’s fevered brow
The tender flesh of virgin maids
press not against me now
No more the cheering of the crowds
resounding in my head
No smiles or chants or accolades
No rivals full of dread
In this arena here I stand
though weary, sad and worn
But not til death’s hand pulps my heart
this sword from hand be torn
Beyond Panic 