I want you to dribble.
I want you to turn
From the matriarch past
To a subject to learn.

I want to state plainly.
I want you to see
What your vain, selfish givings
Have created in me:

Most lustful of torments,
Low pains from my knees,
A pattern for this mind's
Truly bittersweet disease.

Just twelve years of innocence,
Could've thanked you for that,
As you gouged in this monster
Within this boy on his back.

I often search for the key now,
That I might walk from this cell.
But I'm still Pavlov's pup,
With you holding the bell.