The bold little pearls that cluster round our pens,
Have killed the ones who should have lived and would rather meet their ends.

Tragedy is strategy for those who do not care.
Drown out the stares with alcohol your pockmarked pain you wear.

Dependent on the potion that makes a joker coo.
Suspend o'er the smoke that floats pain and ecstasy through.

Killing thoughts, but saving pain is bound to break you ill.
Hooked round the solid solace of the prisms shown surreal.

Burn the burrowed bulls-horns from your gut.
Drink from the blood of sinner's past while you wallow sway and strut.

Lest you find a deadly blow from pipe and needle's cut.