At The Intersection Between The Gutter And Nowhere
The tale unravels into string
Craft and delusion come to naught
Because luck can never be taught
That corpse will beckon with its ring
A loathsome, dead, and dripping spring
Oozing decayed seed onto ash
In that granary full of chaff
Thus the mating rites of Hell sing
What fresh torments will this wind bring?
With that most fickle wheel’s next spin?
What sort of venom will it be?
With which that soul will be defiled?
The forecast says we’re getting frogs
So throw your kids in the bin
Along with what you are
Mutilate it all
Come now what may
Let’s hold hands