Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
Law makes long spokes of the short stakes of men.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.
It seems unpleasantly refined to put things off till someone knows.
Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.
