My perturbed/disturbed son sits to suit with his golden saber-tooth gun perched fair sizeably between these replenished finger-nails of his
Been carrying a surefire, legacy-distilled desire to wipe this whole wide mechanised world of ours right the easy way out
Metaphorically speaking, he’s been careering on heightened timber-top wheels, driving – tongue-waggingly so – to corrode on over all of these deathly-enthused men with an utter predilection to destroy
These seriously silenced to divide, lust-filled derogatory notions swarmed rather deceptively within what seems to me, seems to be, these simply crying eyes of their unequally poured own
He’s prone to be known to cry all of his distasteful own accord soon as the sword comes right back around – one-eighty-degree pile-drive pirouette that neglects to take into account undeserving he
This river of battle-hardened blood will sincerely refuse to flow and tell our whole entire story