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Mother guilt, father golden, child of would
You like the frosting on a schwartzen wald
Virgin tort baby to come to no good
Then cut off his own folding hand once scald.
Rebelations etched on your frosted bones
Are poor until guidance turn and stricken,
Scattered seed coins over temple's tones
Hopen vein for a new heart to quicken.
Fishermen of men nod heads and term it
A crying same that this old massed head should
See her a cane, that crutch monky hermit
Mother-built, father-boldened, thunderstood.
Rack of Rages, that stretched the truth for me,
Just let me tan my hide myself on thee.
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