Bastards death of
The bastards names ran along the gauntlets as if somehow a sort of a two faced
trim cradled the fortune of god smack seducing the bitch dragging the name of my god in the cryptic moss of muddy waters
Time seem to create a lack of ideas ,hearth that I chance my name to be
slaughted before memory blooms beautiful as so I peeled my skin to bone,flesh to fuel the mad hatter that once I called sir ,fore I am not the one to abide unto
what's never meant to be so cold in a breed of bastards pleading the alligeance beit beauty slaind apart from where I reach to fall apart in whispers for
My call unto the winds gave my accordance a place to run afar beyond the perch left blindly suffering beneath the feet of gods harlot painted In a attire of pleasure as I scream that I am not a friend of my foe too believe in a breath to praise only to wake coverd in a dirt filled casket,I feel I'm going blind and yet the bastards run ,lurking in a mount of shame in my mind where I hide ,there I set to folly in the soil of my fragrance ,as I hear the cry of drag the water be it that I chanced the gauntlet to render my chance to garden.