Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm thinking of you
And hoping you're dead

Mary had a little lamb butchered by the same people who raised him
His throat was slit open and skin peeled as they made their way in

He would be enjoyed that evening served with some sauce and wine
His eyes blank with nothingness and soul struggling to leave his body behind

As he was fed to the fire; there was no one in the room more cold
His fate but sealed when in pieces he was sold

And thus, it would end - one story cut short by a blade
To be served and bled in shadows that one day will fade

There by the boiling *** full of dead plants and salt
Will be the final farewell and the last assault

And there by the wooden table sat Mary who once had a little lamb
Tongue struggling in lust, eyes glimmering in the bright of a lamp

Mary had but forgotten about the little creature she raised
Slowly seeping back into the real world and morrow she faced

Not that she wouldn't remember the time they once had
And the cherished memories would surely take her back

But tonight was an exception; when will it be served she wondered
She would have loved to see it blossom, but **** this hunger.