Cunning

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Faces caked with muddy paint
Bow down to their beastly saint
Who’s nothing but a snake with darling jaws
That feed off of out nagging flaws

He’ll grow much stronger, because we are weak
So when he slowly parts his mouth to speak
He’ll shove impossible beauty down our throats
As if in a perversely self-satisfied gloat

He knows we wont stop buying what he’s feeding
To his pit of despair he’s leading
Masses of us, who are choked with vines
Because he planted the seed that took over out minds





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