Slop

Trust my gesture
Wrap around
Hooves broiled in some glop of
Buttered Waste
The souls of 400 men
Whose brains give life to your pretty pocket
Give me the keys to your private sunset
Its 3 more dollars for a slice of pie
Lay your lillies down in the garden and
The roots will suck a stash of striknine
So lets
Seize the traitor
Make him eat an egg so rare you can't smell the stench
The broken glass
Your fingers prick the edge and draw a bath of blood
The thirst is stronger than the scent
It stinks the room
My culture war
Pricks the hand that feeds the spirit
Stabs my ego in the eye