Cheap and nasty, true and bold.
Tales of hiding, fears untold.
Spring out of mouths that should be closed.
Locked in brains too old to know.
Gestate in places dark and hidden.
Finding victims so equally ridden.
For what you give is what you get.
What goes around, lest we forget.
These roots, once wrapped up in cotton.
Fade and break to a summer forgotten.
They twist and scorn in a marauders bed.
And wake tomorrow black and rotten.
With all this talk of heaven.
Lapping at your feet.
Washes only the surface.
Never flowing deep.
For inside the bones are rotten.
And the sins stain and swell.
Redemption is forgotten.
Perpetuating your own hell.
