What I am made of now
You'd gladly leave behind,
Bury deep in the grounds
Never to see again.

Where are my blades
To clean all this infectious blame
This miserable soul
That seems did not deserve
But more
More of the filth
You wouldn't know
Of How to rid yourselves.

Where are those fires
To put an end to all this filthy page
That I've become
This filth of which everyone
Would be Justly Glad
Happily sad to rid themselves.