Hairs napalmed with puss with their tips coagulated posed as they were in life An old wound I will claw off in chunks I will scrub with an iron brush I will carve with a gouge Anything to prevent infection I cannot be stopped Not the faithful duty of tangled blood and hair, nor the sacrifice of the body can stay my wrath! Alas, nature’s tree does not shake for will And thankful germs spread deep in fresh meat