Herding up dead cattle in their masses,
The preacher must confess, bury the hatchet in his chest.
Public be you, private see you in this wicked world,
Your withering hand on the bible you once knew.
Draining this defiled blood for thought of pleasures wrought,
Wrought from the straw, the vein, sucking yourself blue.
For all the evil in the world you have thought yourself through,
There is no living soul that you can open yourself to.
Looking down upon yourself,
Looking down to give to you:
A kiss on the jugular,
A kiss for tomorrow,
A kiss for today,
And A kiss to take the pain away.
Watching your withered body,
Watching yourself you spied:
Blood that trickled down your neck,
Blood that hurt you at best,
Blood that spatters on the bathroom floor,
And Blood that can hurt you no more.
