I yield cold malice.
If it is my weapon then theoretical is your discourse.
Armies are reserved for you, but deep red are your cheeks.
No integrity lies behind them eyes baby.
Shine on, shine on, but don't expect a friendly word.
Don't expect the nod that will pass between amigos when the pavement starts to steam on the hottest of summer days.
The coolness, the stealth of a mind's eye is invisible to you madman.
Yet mud laden, blood and sweat always on the verge of escape, your army marches on.
They'll never win.
It's just not setup that way. Won't even fight the noble fight that has brought so many peace of mind (if just for a day).
I reckon some are just born with their DNA wrapped around a bold, black, capital L.
The kind that is forever floating, drifting through stomachs in green, bubbly liquid.
The watery waste that veils already shortsighted eyes and shades creatures that are equipped with their own little set of horns, scales, and even fins. Destructors for lack of a better word.
They won't jump out from behind weighted shadows.
That just ain't their game.
They're wizards you see.
Wizards of Oz.
Minus the phony, plus the volume and grief.
But it's no math equation madman. So much more than that.
They're eating your life boy! Feeding on emotions.
Tonight they sup on embarrassment, and their favorite dish is lonely. You could (and do, tick tock tick tock) serve it nightly, and they wouldn't grow tired.
It is stale to them, true, but thick and under the right conditions, fills those bellies right up.
And do you know the funniest thing of all madman?
These creatures yield cold malice.