I saw the bedroom --
I even saw the bed --
that you were burned in.
I stood in the living room
you and your brother were wheeled into
to exchange skin.
You must have screamed.
They must have given you
the first taste
of the whiskey you now cling to
as your blisters were removed,
your brother grafted to you
as he died,
flesh and blood now
inside and outside.
And, off the in the wild and violent, violet sky,
I could hear the Devil bowling.
All along the strobing, hot wax miles,
funnel clouds touched down,
and I was scared of them then.
I am scared of them now.
And in the wheat behind your house,
I walked up to my waist,
and all the ticks were disappointed
by my uncirculating legs.
I sat in an old school bus
and I tried to pull them out,
but only back-halves were released,
and I was left with preta mouths.
And as they chewed the meat of me,
I could hear them sing,
"You say you saw him suffer?
You should have seen him burning."
And as they chewed the meat of me,
I could hear them sing,
"You say you saw him suffer?
You should have smelled him burning."
And, off the in the wild and violent, violet sky,
I could hear the Devil bowling.
All along the strobing, hot wax miles,
funnel clouds touched down,
and I was scared of them then.
I am scared of them now,
scared of them now,
scared of them now,
scared of them now.
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