A fictional thirst for blood
They sicken me to the pits of my soul
they sicken me to the pits of my soul!
And it echos like the beats of a drum
telling me to kill them, kill them, kill...
No. no, not kill them, torture them, destroy them!
make them relish the sweet taste of death
but no, they will not taste such a sweet thing
they will suffer, and suffer, and suffer agonizingly
until that sweet moment of rain, rain from the skies of their eyes
a flood of emotional demise
and then, then I will hunger for more, and more, and more
And they shall sit in the dim lighted room
hanging in the closet like a worn out broom
sweeping up all the mess of their souls
into a pile of regret and morseling woes
And then I shall come again, and again, and again
until this hatred slows, and slows, and slows