I must of bled the sledge dry;
gripped it too hard then let my creaks fly.
It used to save my life when the time was right,
but now the night haunts me like I've gone and died.
"Pick up your chin, kid. The plume ain't too bright."
I might but the particles feel like pesticides against my hide.
Too pessimistic to bleed, I picked up the scissors
and flea'd the **** out like I was dodging God's triggers.
Paradise sounds more like a synonym for prison
and I've surpassed being baptized by the right side.
So no thank you, but I will take an extra large fry.
A step away from vampire, so what if I live to dine.
I'll dine 'til I die and I don't give a **** if I'm crucified.