Burns

I wouldn't lie to you
Conquer or divide by two
Stir my brain until my mind becomes a stew

I won't supply the noose
A chain be it tight or loose
We don't get to wine or dine or choose

I'll wait outside for you
They'll picture us bright and blue
Ripe for the right abuse

They don't matter none to us
They don't match the bruises the burns or the cuts
The nighttime cry of the gnats and cicadas