You should have been tired a long time ago, little baby,
constantly being lied to through a cocky grimace,
saying down between my holy robes is really your Heaven,
there be food for hunger, and water for those of thirst,
and most important to your very shame, girl,
is you lying to us right here without any fitting excuse.
Knees feed more when requiring some aid,
dropping the microphone to testify,
hear me way below in shouts every day,
churning in your acid heart to crucify,
almost duplicating my system as a masquerade,
but I’m the genuine expert to stupefy.
Like father, like daughter, except neither of you can admit this,
instead you’re oozing with mischievous superiority,
about both trying to command the game for our whole pot,
whether you actually get high or just significantly bring us lower,
blessed master thanks all involved for playing along,
clearing his aching throat since he was silent a thousand years.
Gloss the frame with whatever fat you can manage,
teach us meek ignorant how you got this far out of sight,
drowning your choice of words from each passage,
underneath this rickety throne built specifically for its height,
dragging our flailing souls around for mass damage,
never worrying because we aren’t strong enough to fight.
Sharwrong's Song 