I disarrange their limbs and build a being more fitting to loathe - more fitting to fold. They question not the grave I dig, but the shovel with which it is dug. I guide their foul claws so they know which way to sway. I guise their petty flaws so the worms can't see the grey. I build them limb from limb so the whores know where to play. I combed the ape and dressed it up to be the blame. The putrid teeth part and sing a song of reprieve, "Oh holy father, please, please set us free." Fuck the folklore - the butcher is me. I bed the grave on which all will lie. As the skin begins to peel, the frame beneath reveals a mass of twisted bone and soured skin. The flesh rips as the issue progresses. The bones snap and the guise begins to fray. The pretty teeth part and sing a song of reprieve, "Oh holy father, please, please set me free." Fuck the folklore - the butcher was me. I bed the grave on which I will lie. The limbs sway countless, with mine among them. They sway a swing similar to the unhurried needles at the end of the brave; let the guilty hang.