Molt
God gave you up.
Deformed you and beat you.
Settled you on a dove's back.
And let you fall from grace.
And your mother was ashamed.
Cried and cried every day.
Called you every name.
To break your heart.
"You've got the lot to burn
A shelve of pig smotherd cries
Is there a spirit that spits
Upon the exit of signs
Is anybody there
(spines in a row)
These steps keep on growing long
(spite as an arrow)
Bayonet trials rust propellers await"
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