when one can’t exactly be the refinement they wish to see in the world, some times a scream in the void wakes the rooster’s dream which came first the stricken or the leg it’s one hand or the other ways we folly water uphill a good day on precipice of thirst sanctimony in a blighted vestibule ragged and wheezing a parched man of scintillation, a weakness thrice stung like a wasp might stab a berry picker thorn deep in flower, such wanton relish the smug agents of righteous taunts revel in business of destruction how vile the monster thousands decry and the age victorian skew litany of hapless text scarlet knew of spittle and rage surely the mark was bait or our demon the hallmark such scourge and bile blind amass what advocate harm befell the lass with a ten foot pole i prithee foe