Down In The Valley

ots

Down where the Valley girls' sing with the rain drenching their hair; down where the cannibals play with the guns, shooting at them, the bodies' falling from the sky.  

 

Their blood, draping over my skin, caressing the tender burns and scars. 

 

Their organs, parading us as we come undone, becoming savages all over again; the whites in our eyes growing bigger; leaving no room for sanity. 

 

The veins in our bodies' popping with each malicious bone we bite down on. 

 

Their screams' all shout in unison, singing the songs of our victory. 

 

Triumph; we have won you over, no, don't you worry, you are not our lover; we are greed Himself; hungry only for more. 

 

Hungry only for the sovereign to lose her power; to give to us the mighty stick so that we may rule over the living, so we may get a chance to say what we say. 

 

There are no beaches with umbrellas; there are no cakes with singing; there are no smiling children.  

 

There are no smiling crowds, but if there were smiling, they would all be smiling; a glitter of something insane in their eyes'; the pupils' becoming smaller and smaller until there are none left. 

--- 

 Lumpish where the Vale girls' sing with the rain drenching their hair; lumpish where the cannibals play with the guns, shooting at them, the bodies' cadent from the canopy.   

  

Their blood, draping aloft mine skin, caressing the effeminate burns and scars.  

  

Their organs, parading us as we come undone, becoming savages all aloft erst more; the whites within our eyes crescive bigger; hence-vieakeing  nay lodging for sanity.  

  

The veins within our bodies' popping with each despiteful bone we jaw lumpish on.  

  

Their screams' all lament within unison, singing the songs of our victory.  

  

Triumph; we hast won thee aloft, nay, do not thee tuition, thou art nary our leman; we art greed Himself; vain mered for more.  

  

Hungry mered for the diadem to forgo her diadem; to instate to us the puissant stave so that we may sway aloft the pert, so we may get a having to say what we say.  

  

There art nay beaches with umbrellas; there art nay cakes with singing; there art nay smiling tun.   

  

There art nay smiling crowds, yet whe'er there were smiling, they would'st all be smiling; a glister of somewhat bestraught within their eyes'; the pupils' becoming smaller and smaller till that there art naught sinister.