This is from the mind of the deranged--
Little did I know, I had a pleasure for carnage.
It always made me intoxicated.
To conceive the crying children,
As they pray to their begetter--
For a place of refuge.
I explicitly annotate--
It's not me who you resent.
I have so much tribulation--
I wish I was habitual.
But I'm afraid I am a bit melancholy--
Which leads me to foresee.
Many deaths that are to be--
Between this fraudulent identity.