There is a function for this thing I have it cannot be, but only wills Pushing itself into itself, it denies instrumental in design, benign and blind A bullet for building The preachers prey in paradise,causing young children to run from this sight Further into sweet delight Deeper into endless night Driven Dying But never, EVER<EVER crying death before honesty Denial Entrenched in the wretched waste of a four year hangover we have never been glad to be spiritually sober Hangers on are falling in, into the sacred hotel of sin singing,hoping for revelations finding hell in satiation pointing sacramental scented icons "dashing dapper gents and Don Juans" "Not enough your smiling ways" "You must leave, but your soul will stay" They found my sacred heart smelly and repugnant but they recycle, so they exclaimed "fuggit" "We can make 3.50, and buy a couple charcoal filtered" "Look at the design on this chumps soul we pilfered" "I think it's some reference to a triumph of the masses" Like Johnny football painter, and those oracles he passes It's radiating something, maybe mismanaged mutual worship "I think he's living in it, it's best if we just torch it"