By Arcassin Burnham

Like the tiniest insect,
He looks down on us all,
Bottles , cloths and gasoline,
Lets make it work til fall,
Inevitably taken by beautiful music,
The next morning waking up,
With deep cuts and bruises,
Will leave you feeling stuck,
We're honored by the life we choose,
Stuck in a house of murders,
That you never want to relive,
I can't get through to you,
If you pop this pill,
Gotta get out of what you going through.