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.