The speakeasy parlor was filled with many a fair lady,
Fallen victim to another mind rape by their Christian fathers.
It was never easy to show them I loved them,
He said as He was removed from the booth.
No one had the time to listen to Him, they don't care.
It wasn't His thing to talk like that,
Waking up the next day in a nightmare of a grey colored room
Full of friends with no names and metal as cold as hell.
This was yet another favorite of His,
Conscious effort was put into everything that He didn't do and
Everything else was a failed plan.
Why didn't this work?
If only gratitude could get you somewhere.
If only gratitude could get you somewhere.
Censor His bleeding hands, broken teeth and blood-red hair.
This is His love. yet another day blessed with His presence.
Continue to beat Him, this is His love.
Coughing up His mother's love all over a plate of refurbished organisms,
This is His love. oh mother Mary, forgive them, for they have won.
Spoken fast enough to spark a memory into everyone's tired mind.
Built upon a cross of clothes and thorns of wrinkled scarves,
And hung from a ceiling, and sent to every child's living room.
Depictions of life as told by a subdued body within us all.
We aren't loved anymore. behold, the white whore.
