Ashley
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 17, 2005
- Messages
- 1,000
Warfare Of The Mind
A pleasant afternoon, corrupted by an ill prepared anarchist,
There were daisies and pretty birds, flying all around of us,
For the bombs, they had yet to be detonated,
Flying shrapnel and explosions that will eviscerate,
What seems to the uneducated to be an ordinary mandate,
But soon they would need an indisputable faith,
A stark realisation of their need to pray.
There will be havoc launched, like a bullet from a gun,
Except with dynamite, Molotov cocktails and red hot napalm,
You cannot escape the wrath which we will bring,
Upon your intricate anomalies and your useless things,
But don't you blubber and sputter and carry on,
Your time is up now, you must accept it my son,
When you're burning alive and you can't run,
Whilst your clothes and flesh are flaming like the sun,
Your soul had been ignited after being soaked in rum.
And if I could put a bookmark this damn page of rage,
I'd be a happy man and perhaps live until a ripe old age,
But still it tears and it rips, and solidly it grips,
And it won't let go, as it pulls me to and fro,
Be damned you invisible syndrome,
Without a definition, I should send you back,
To wherever it is that you call home.
A.
A pleasant afternoon, corrupted by an ill prepared anarchist,
There were daisies and pretty birds, flying all around of us,
For the bombs, they had yet to be detonated,
Flying shrapnel and explosions that will eviscerate,
What seems to the uneducated to be an ordinary mandate,
But soon they would need an indisputable faith,
A stark realisation of their need to pray.
There will be havoc launched, like a bullet from a gun,
Except with dynamite, Molotov cocktails and red hot napalm,
You cannot escape the wrath which we will bring,
Upon your intricate anomalies and your useless things,
But don't you blubber and sputter and carry on,
Your time is up now, you must accept it my son,
When you're burning alive and you can't run,
Whilst your clothes and flesh are flaming like the sun,
Your soul had been ignited after being soaked in rum.
And if I could put a bookmark this damn page of rage,
I'd be a happy man and perhaps live until a ripe old age,
But still it tears and it rips, and solidly it grips,
And it won't let go, as it pulls me to and fro,
Be damned you invisible syndrome,
Without a definition, I should send you back,
To wherever it is that you call home.
A.
