I am the man in the mirror, the man that lacks common sense, the man taken for a joker, crucified to resent
The man who writes up the scribes that keep the wall of the dead, dead
He awoke in the morning to his wife cooking with no head
It is pain and she thrives in this frantic hand I know, I am libidinous, aching to be ignored, left alone
For what price can he pay for the scribblings of the damned? A skinny whore with the ravishing's of a God Damn Man.
Her eyes convulsed irises filled the whites of her eyes, the scattered writing signified that she was dead on the inside.
Moved away from the home where Christ had rose the undead and yelled a song louder than an infant, whos mother's off her meds
Swallowed gold to forget the war, Lost and stark, he'd hark at the monster he saw inside bed after dark
A little bit of innocence with a tiny pinch of regret, makes the sickest men cry tears, dangerous as a hex.