That they can call themselves men,
makes churn the entire of my entrails,
and fuels the now Phyrric fires of my rage,
and causes my hand and heart some sorrow to part with a devouring blade,

oh, in the blade could be the cutting,
      in the blade would be the laughing,
      in the blade should be the culling,

Like they say, there is good in everyone,
but some won't let the good out,
so i'll force it through the flayed skin,
and soak myself in the warmth of their goodness,
the red of life will finally be shown.

That they can call themselves men,

They would take from the world and not give a penny back.
They would take from the soul and not give a blessing back.
Take advantage of the weak, they would say, for if they get their meat, 'all' is well.
For in their world there is only them.

Snakes for the feast. Swallow so much,
more than they can, and live a fruitless life.
Well fucking done.



But they could have done it without the heretic.
Who leads the snakes straight to the vulnerable gates,
and leaves nothing but nothing behind.

They dance, they fling,
show more skin then whim,
and they give the taste of it to the snakes.
and they want more.

The dogs have damned their sisters.
Left their legs, their heads, and themselves divided.
Just because they want to live life.

Well i'll tell you,
If you wanted to act like animals, you should have been them.
And not dragged down the rest of humanity.
I'm sick....