Grit

I am the king of the angry flesh,

I`d like to take away thy pleasure,

Your mind is the terrorist,

It corrupts your life of leisure.

We are the keepers of the flies,

The lovers and infested,

I`d like to slice away your eyes,

But you would feel molested.

May we cry tears for those,

They have not seen our conscience,

Take off your human clothes,

Your skin is thy filthy produce.

Then the sun clears those rainy skies,

I see the beauty of thine dearest eyes.