The room before you begs explanation,
so let me assuage your consternation,
and try to imagine if you can,
that despite the scene before you,
I am not a hateful man.

You see my startled listener,
I'm a man like most you'd meet,
I have to wake, and sleep, and eat,
but those needs are never the sum,
some men must build, some father sons,
some men must paint or write their stories,
or do great things to gain their glory,
but there are those with less noble needs,
who infest the garden of man like weeds,
these awful men must take their hurt,
and work it deep into the dirt,
they choke the garden blooming bright,
and hide their crimes from their fellows' sight.

All men suffer, as I'm sure you know,
but some men do not keep their woe,
some awful men must spread their pain,
for they cannot bear the weight and strain,
these weaker men seek out the kind,
the soft of heart and calm of mind,
they think they have a right you see,
to hurt the sweet and call them weak.

That's what this blood is from, you see,
for no-one hurts in front of me.