Ever so often, someone sent food, which was good.
My god was it good, so really really good.

Out of every coffin was a sort of reprieve because of that
heap of uneaten rations from the dead who have died.

Died
Died they did.
And now
from they're dead eye's I've hidden my guilt and ridden my gut of the fat that had enacted a deal on the pit of my gullet that'd made me so sorry. To hate all the glory and feel all a sudden so sullen, so sorry, I'm not buying glory.

My Lord makes me hate killers.
Which makes me hate me.
Vinegar is wine in my eyeballs.
It's how the Lord makes me see.