How about a quick Tragedy?
A Bullet, blown through the temple of your head,
by a physcotic suicide gunner.
In with bullet,
Out with blood.
Where the whittness tries to help, but instead, turns the weapon on himself.
by a physcotic suicide gunner.
In with bullet,
Out with blood.
Where the whittness tries to help, but instead, turns the weapon on himself.
Or, perhaps a nice, long, painful death?
Stapling your swollen, cherry lips together.
Taking a razor, and slowly slit your body, carving designs of death into your porclein skin.
Burning your hair,
Strapped to a chair,
And nobody dares to care.
Amputating your fingers,
With live wires and Stingers,
A deadly monster is he.
Driving nince inch nails,
That never ever fails.
A monster that will not flee.
Taking a razor, and slowly slit your body, carving designs of death into your porclein skin.
Burning your hair,
Strapped to a chair,
And nobody dares to care.
Amputating your fingers,
With live wires and Stingers,
A deadly monster is he.
Driving nince inch nails,
That never ever fails.
A monster that will not flee.
So with the taste of your blood,
Which quite litterally he would,
A slow painful death will be delivered to thee.
