Somber civilians get stoned when the fingers point roughly,
Carving the face, damaging the decrepit superficial's ugly,
Earth sleeps and snores violence, it's drool is the grass,
The sky painting disheveled figures of systems of class,
Homosapiens are dices, being roled by hands of signs,
They will make you see low, fluttery, suddenly, utterly minds,
Protruding through the devil's revelling level of heavenly rebels,
Fallen angels, it's painful, like a car's wheels when the pedals settle,
There can not be a chosen one, unless your the soul survivor,
Webbing like a spider, a viper's infections of suicidal and vital idols,