As if to come upon a limb a dangle
Over arch the canopy bramble
And strung from this twig pious and vile
A face cut from human hide it was torn
In scorn born deep within a cruel man's inner war
Worn was that skin shrunken yet still warm
It's your mother, it's your father, it's every blur
One might pass in the street, begging to eat
Lend me your horror, but please do see
The framilar features that will not delete
A walk in the woods you see?