Who knows, you might be king someday
With weapon reserves to make them obey
Until then, hoard hordes, but call it horseplay
Dog day, gods pray, filet the boss, flay frays for days

Gain insight under the sinner’s skin to indict
Fan the flames, square lay blame to win fight
Sleight of hand, spin, shout, ban, alibi wind tight
Cluster to clan, into hell from rim of fry pan, dog man bites

State of disrepair, forsaken lot, alternate route, same terminus
Portraits in oxidation, salvage clusters passing muster till date indeterminate
Melt them down to serrated horns, adorned on last subject left to interpellate
Whittled down to a singular distortion, fucked over by his own coordinates


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