Only when one has the sweet smell of psychosis,
Can he truly know justice,
Oh, so sweet is the stench
Of decaying existence of mind.
The penniless fools march down their arcades,
Like soliders they rack up their lines.
Lines, that divide evil and man.
A crooked incline straightens.
Wilted lines of reality,
Crash like waves into cliff of darkest insanity.
Twisted angle with a saint like message,
Laying crushed on the floor.
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