Why dont you just finally,
Twist the knife you’ve stuck in me,
Watch the life drain out of me,
And wash your hands until they bleed?
All the pain you’ve given me,
Can finally drain away with ease,
But I can’t sustain this injury,
While you maintain the olive tree.
Cant you find the subtlety,
Of disinclined humanity,
To tow the line reluctantly,
As far as it can get from me?
A thing living opportunistically,
Too weakened by your own recovery,
A wisdom lost on all who see,
The lies of a wise sobriety.
If there’s a real bone in your skeleton,
Any semblance of what is a gentlman,
Any scrap of yourself that is genuine,
This appeal has been sent to him.