V1)
This sick little man, is the devil's dirty hand, the magican's broken wand, the dead water atop a pond.
He lives in shadows cast by his own ignorance, he's stuck in neverland waiting for deliverence,
When all he'll find, is the dark side of his mind, that he, unlike me and my brothers, is blind.
He speaks of truth, yet speaks so abstractly stupidly, you'd think you were talking to a child with problems,
not a man with muscles, that he uses to abuse his race, abuse his wife, abuse his life, and abuse my mind,
V2)
He is a child abuser, for he abrused me from day one, he saw the darkness of his heart blacked out the sun,
Like a traveler, without cause or reason, he is the devil's step son, he lives in his womb,
Waiting to uncoil like a scorpion, and sting his prey, who never have time nor chance to ignore this beast.
he lives in the cold fires of hell's dark labyrinths, he is the man without mind soul or reason, just abstract abuse.
C)
The cockroach he is, to be a bug running from fire, to be a sweet little create under his shoe,
to be dead, to be his foe, to be his enemy, is to know darkness, is to know evil.
He speaks the language of the dead, for his already dead, a bitter hollow husk of huamnity,
abject and depriaved, lost and desolate. his heart beats no pulse, for he has no blood to swim along.
V3)
I pity his kids and the horrible life that awaits them, I pity his mind, I pity his wife, I pity his life.
Yet he will sing a song of brillance, using words so simple you could cry, if not try at least to die,
His mind is worn out, like a car battery, struggling for life, struggling for acceptance in a universe
he barely comprends, let alone understands.
His name is paul.
He lives in london. Hope you met him one day.
