All hallows ever,
And I am sitting on the bed,
The bed that is a couch,
With narerly an account,
but surely still,
That Frankenstein will listen,
No morely not,
I am my own with standing,
Yet who we are is who we have repeatedly been,
Muderer's killers, who are we truly, but conglomerates of our free willing,
and lies withunderstood.