I'm devastating. Revolted sort, salt the earth and scatter your limbs and organs across the dirt. The patterns are quick to morph and at anytime I'll bend a rhyme. Like Saturn's rings in orbit I'm often warped. Speed. Please. End this line of casualities. It's morbid. The saddest scene since Norbit. But I'm 48 hours away from battery with torrid blasphemy. Ignorant? But I'll never sing a chorus. Just let you cower in pain.
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws.
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