In Birmingham’s soot, a shadow was born,

A voice like a banshee, a heart battle-worn.

From the steel and the smoke, he clawed out a sound,

That shattered the silence and shook the ground.

 

The Sabbath began with a thunderous cry,

A riff like a curse from the cold English sky.

And Ozzy, wide-eyed, with madness and grace,

Lit up the world with that haunted face.

 

A prince crowned in darkness, yet never alone,

With demons he danced, with devils he'd moan.

He bit through the myths, and stumbled through fame,

But rose every time — wild, broken, and brave.

 

Through needles and nightmares, and stages ablaze,

He sang out our anger, our love, and our daze.

A jester, a prophet, a father, a flame,

The world knew his chaos — and chanted his name.

 

No choir of angels, no harp-strumming choir,

Just Ozzy, still screaming through wires and fire.

And though years may tarnish what legends become,

His howl is eternal. The beat of the drum.

 

So raise up your horns for the bat-biting bard,

The man made of madness, the myth made of scars.

For all of our monsters, for all of our sins —

He sang, and we followed the song that begins:

 

“I’m going off the rails…” — and we still ride along.

With Ozzy the twisted.

With Ozzy the strong.