I pour rum down Liz Shue's whoredom
Drifter in the Port slums, I want more numb
Force drunk century with a scorth sun tendency
Born dumb, we learn bunch of bologna
Live this way, over a hundred are pulling
This summit is boring, the fuck we climbing for
Nothing more poetic than a rhyme ignored
Final four way stop of my plight
All this rage to disperse but the object is nice
Awesome pendent, carcass of Christ
On a cross, the irony. A wrinkle through what?
We botched the ironing
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"black as midnight..black as pitch
blacker than the soul of the foulest witch"
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