He's got a whip-scarred centerfold
In the trunk of his car
Pocket full of spices
To go with the sore
It's he who's got
The crania and the remnants
What would he have done
If suffocation wasn't portable
Pages of the memory
Torn out disappeared
As did the severed limbs
Buckshots conflagrated the arteries
In a 210 bpm cardiac march
A carcass of alcohol enraptures
In a 60/40 combustion/evaporation
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