Beware the poet;
we'll spell out your sins with our own blood,
and then smear it until it fills up our rooms and covers our arms.
(the door's locked,
we say,
but it never really is,
is it)
Futility
Beware the poet;
we'll spell out your sins with our own blood,
and then smear it until it fills up our rooms and covers our arms.
(the door's locked,
we say,
but it never really is,
is it)
