But oh, those singers murdering so many good songs.

But oh, those singers murdering so many good songs.

Perhaps in her heart

She was young,

She hid it well

The loss of hope.

Pushing a trolley,

An exoskeleton

Full of past mistakes.

She sold herself

Many times over

Looking for love

The babies she had

The dead hands that betrayed her.

Formless patrons

Of the arts

Deceivers of property

Fancy dress is obligatory

In high-class establishments

Payment on delivery.

They have bail bondsmen

On retrieval service

Garbage collection

Is never out of fashion.

The streets never run out

Of bodies

To deliver.

The pavement is littered

With the unwashed corpses

Of the poor.

A litany of prayers

Invoke the righteous

To declare

The night is free from sin.

The light from the lamps

Dims sufficiently

To hide the despair

Sunk into the darkest corners.

The foulest despond

Is upon those

Who lie naked on the floor

Awaiting the approach

Of an executioner.

The plight of all

Is the reaper's scythe,

Pay a penny

To watch it fall.

Everything has its price

Even your head,

Collection plates

Are full of them.