The flesh eating words are being written
As we read.
And it’s those cold fingers that keep it going
Here we can do without the warm sun
There we can not go one day without the
Grip of our shiny little pen’s of sympathy.
It’s pretty it’s like a dying flower blooming
And a bloody army singing viciously
But their uniforms need pressed.
Do you have your hateful iron honey?
Do you have time to put on that black dress?
Are we ready to go?
It reminds of times of to much wine
Causing begging to mumble strongly
O how do we drink through the ear?