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The Wrens

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The Wrens

6.

rules, fools, the idiots that shower them in flowers
praise them great in open song
color by numbers copy one another I'll wolf you
promise stupid tiny bells
ain't find no favor for stacking for the tilted
this fairground is getting close to closing won't it stop me?
rank, split, my eyes are choked with water
seeing haters finger point at lesser skin
rupture, young lovers with rape and rank
it shudders me to see the better thing as sin
I won't believe that her of ways, of worth, of less of him
done back for others what split
the hearts of mothers I know a quieting
behind the corn scratches diseased from the pities
you've passed around oh chicklet marry to me overseas