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Music: Ricci / Paglieri

Words: Mercy

"Find meat on bones that soon have none,

the merriest marrow and the dregs!"

So the poet, the only one who wrote

about the flesh.

Entrail are hags and limbs are torn,

my face is haggard in the glass

and my heart is cracked across,

flesh you break,

this blood you let.

The points to prove, cold lies so far

make us the fools we are.

A certain way to talk so crude

she thinks that extremely rude.

From the Hallway I hear them speak

And I'm trying hard not to shriek!

I'm ashamed of my voice too loud,

I can't wash my dullard look

like blood that remains on me,

I tried to humble myself in deep.

I feel like when I was a child

forced to show a cropped hair.

Oh! That so dammit people,

they spin around me now!

showing these false smiles

they ask me: "where's your wife?"

Like a Mantra I repeat:

"my wife is out on business..."

Them full of modesty never seen

they shall not laugh at anyone

when their bones are picked clean

and the clean bones shall be gone.

I found meat on bones that soon have none

when the lovers laid in need,

in my sullen craft under a gaging moon

I think poet will write about me.

About butcher's love pains

About butcher's love pains

About butcher's love pains.