Tasting the better sweet fruits of fools crying over the gravity of life’s pain, naively self-inflicted while seeking the riches in the forbidden gains, Reality becomes the task masters whip! that snap! before the crack! hell there’s no way back.
Drowning in the cesspool of this pity party order by thy own hand, surely the judgment of Father never enter into the plan. Then the closing iron jaws of the prison gate sealed your fate damn! it’s to late, many have been rode hard some now weary and contrite, looking forward to last rights.
There is always a low steady hum pulsating through the bowels of this cold gray painted concrete dungeon, this never-ending cycle of moving boys and men through its arteries, the plaque in the vines mixed with disease death! and desperation, call an mortician who need resuscitation.