I’m a unicorn torn from blood,
I drink shandy — it lifts my mood.
Wine gets me drunk with no delay,
I run so fast… yet crawl all day.

I feast on Docherak with pride,
I’m Cyrano with wounds to hide.
A nose too sharp for subtle scenes,
A dreamer lost in tangerine.

Look! A child soaked in mercy’s glaze,
And me? An anarchist brushed in haze.
Dead words are often heavy and sore,
One does not trifle with love anymore.

A word is blasphemy’s breath,
A cry for help in a world near death.
I’m the king who reigns — these are my themes!
But truth be told… I’m low on steam.

I feel cold under burning skies,
A mouth of sweat, a tongue of lies.
A stare frozen by what it fears,
A feeling lost in a cage of tears.

I bother a janitor just for fun,
A shattered soul, yet touched by none.
See my words as a blasphemous wedge,
For the living dead is not a hedge.