Rated for Mature(17+)
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Vile

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Summary:
My second piece of music on here. You can play the song at the bottom of the page if you like.

Precious little mingle fling,
I’ll push two fingers through the ring
if that’ll make you love me more.
Your hatch is patched up by a sore.
Makes the mute and tone deaf sing for more.

Ring ding ding, curtains up,
Wake up.
Make-up.
MATE. SLUT.

Deflowered, underpowered, over-cowered,
faintly soured?
Need a shower??

I find my findings ever so found.

Cheeks blackened. Broken back-end.
Front’s a mess too. A total wreck and,
I meant to warn ya about the crack when
you went to town on that stacked crowd.
Heck, I’ll even lend you a chute to drain
your paranoid puke.

Nothing? Might’ve been a fluke.

It shows, cowards get carried by crows.
Best men avoid marriage by vows.
Last man stands proud before crowds.
Rest of it fits right in the… wow…

I just realised my loosely viced advice is
pragmatised by lies.
Infected by plural bi-erected, surprise-injected
futile cries.
Plenty wise would eventually realise the poor
perfected rise in ghillie-disguised demise
is deprived by merely in-justified linger-eyes.

So lonely.

So lonely am I.

Lonely as the word “I”.

That’s not a word.

One letter shy.

So “ay”,
would like to pretend
that all is fine.

Like to pretend things are different
for a while.

Less… Vile.

 

Plow her…

 

Deflowered… underpowered… over-cowered…
faintly soured.
Need a shower? Need a shower?

I find my findings ever so found.

Cheeks blackened. Broken back-end.
Front’s a mess too. A total wreck and,
I meant to warn ya about the crack when
you went to town on that stacked crowd.
Heck, I’ll even lend you a chute to drain
your paranoid puke.

Nothing? Might’ve been a fluke.

It shows, cowards get carried by crows.
Best men avoid marriage by vows.
Last man stands proud before crowds.
Rest of it fits right in the… wow…

I just realised my loosely viced advice is
pragmatised by lies.
Infected by plural bi-erected, surprise-injected
futile cries.
Plenty wise would eventually realise the poor
perfected rise in ghillie-disguised demise
is deprived by merely in-justified linger-eyes.

So lonely.

So lonely am I.

Lonely as the word “I”.

That’s not a word.

One letter shy.

So “aay!”,
would like to pretend
that all is fine.

Like to pretend things are different
for a while.

Less… Vile.

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