Funny Eyes

I got a cemetery mind,
Intermingling defined.
I’m at the procreator’s gate,
Dirt and grime to nauseate.

Halls with no walls,
Birds with no wings,
A snake’s throat,
The back of my mind sings.
Chances ill with magnetism,
Drawn into fate,
At the procreator’s gate.

You don’t think we don’t know.
Paranoia interflows.
Gonna feed the starvin’ child,
Until it just don’t grow.
Surrender to a waking dawn,
A yawning midnight drawn.

Just because everyone else has food,
Doesn’t mean you’ll be fed, child.
Now grow, boy, grow,
Into a festering incestor of a man.
Inbreds won.
Inbreds won.
INBREDS WON.
Understand?