Hindered I am waiting for the moment of your bleeding
My heart is throttled like an hourglass in its middle,
While my thought yells with epileptic throbs

I am looking at your orifice
And I say to myself: maybe you are dead,
Maybe I am in a nightmare, in which
I find myself in an abandoned slaughter-house

There is no another explanation
Which for the horrible pestilence
You are emanating that of a corpse
Carved and abandoned to the worms

But here is the answer:
Is not blood that you're spitting
Between your legs,
But a feminine flop

So, in the end, I'm gonna try
To finally do something good - I'll forgive you!

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