a front-stormin' electric rain, carbonic rain,
always makes me end my day without any brain;
sells ev'ry mathematic strain an' has disdain for
smellin' fakes or even sway from the mistakes
that still remain from skeptic, crimson stations
in which my train'd cause disarray for retakes.
with ev'ry symptomatic pain, read quotations,
insane sensations won't fade, spread distastes
which the taste could swallow soul colouration,
an' escalate thru the spine with flow an' ambition,
let it go to waist, then follow direct thru the tissue
that embraces fine the divine joint of my mission;
or should I call it existance? reflect the illest issue
that displaces the place of a race full of distortion.
even after all this resistance, it's still an abortion,
a bomb fill'd with rage blowin' out of proportion...
