My soul's a wound,
I won't be sad for very long,
isn't that sad?
Nothing I do is sacred.
I sleep with dead people,
they like to stuck the blood from
my body, but that's okay.
They need life.
I sit with invalids,
we'll just be sick together.
Out of order.
Hate is a lover,
if you take that away
then I'd be cold.
I need the warm blood
of my affliction
to cover me, comfort me,
so I won't be so exposed.
Pray for me,
but God may not exist;
It's okay,
we'll try anyway...