Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome
(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)
WE utter tumors of blood.
For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains
It was there I had seen him first. An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.
Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold. Obliging, as a casserole. She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.
Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.
Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.
Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.
I protest to this embankment,
The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!
No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed. No matter the vials for your smiles. A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon. Crimson waters will punish your passageway.
..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.