Bullets / The Horrible People

It's time to come home,
Your just a little dirty maggot who begs to be touched,
My life is made of twisted sticks,
Mounds of external filth.

Give me a bullet for everyone who looks at you,
I rather die a martyr than a hero,
One bullet, two, three, four bullet,
Kiss little number five, lock it,
Silver friends, derived to disgust you.

TAKE YOUR HATRED OUT ON ME.

Dont worry little one, The bad man, hes gone,
Wasted away, into my minds enternal decay,
It's time to go home, rest in my cell for another day.

Ian Robert Potapoff