I load my silver tongue with brass crass and hollowed-points may be my nature **** my thoughts, take aim and with plosive sputter, sling my brain with metal hatred
Fling my words in forked contention, misattribute my cold-hearted intentions, with passion a fervor holds convection, 'Till pride produce the bituminous heavens
But still, with marksman's gaze will you free my lies, your scope of view between the ghostly sights and trigger a sensationalist enterprise for which all my lies will bleach From red to white, Tartarous sheen
There are words severed from man, and as they hang their heads for the guillotine, has any body stopped to ask, "What do they mean"?
But the wheel cannot cease revoluting, just as the rifle cannot beget its shooting, Without the fatal trace of careful phrase, fingered around the triggered maze These words will fly hot metal and lye Awash the ****** floor of dissident and acidic representation
Till all the light of spoken rhyme, will dine upon the littered flames