My middle eye, it’s aim is true. When it’s the time for reprimand imagine how sorry…
I want more. I want more you poor bastard. I want more and more faster.
The hawks are out in flocks (the sun, my only sun) ,but I don’t think the leaves are coming back. (The unforgiving sun). The season of the famished beast; of gnashing teeth.
(The sun, the blinding sun). One day it was green, but now it’s not. (The sun, my only sun)
My withered mind, it’s aim is true. Its rage is blind to recognize anyone but you.
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