by Nick Gisburne
You may not be the deviant we think
But wickedness is never left to chance
The fluids we are forcing you to drink
Induce a potent, psychotropic trance
Excruciating seizures, at their peak
Are symptoms of a sick, tormented soul
Emotions, self-inflicted by the weak
To poison what is perfect, human, whole
For love, the greatest pestilence of all
There is no pill, no antidote, no cure
But surgery permits us to install
A pain-inducing probe to keep you pure
Your secret was discovered. She is dead
A thought we leave as warning in your head
