I’ve had my fill of such things from villains.
The sounds they make – the taste they have are vile.
Pretense, for damage is done, mere watchwords.
I choose to see, or not see, as the case
Issues forth. Pithy traces of my blood
Move downward seeking brief respite from you.
I’m left cold from your impression and herds
Of adoring fanatic gangs still in
Cahoots with their egos and hateful style,
Chirping and singing and feeding like birds.
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