littleboy Vincent, I cannot give you any more tea.

but the nectars of my bloooOOD and of my eye-sockets! they wait not on your shrunked shoulders, little girl.

silly little girl! come then, the butcher awaits your neck!

thriftstore morals.

convenientstore love.

I SWALLOW YOUR FUCKING LYTHE FOR THE SAKE OF MY HARP!

mass graves: stained by religion.

(it floats away, you see)

thrice did young Vincent know

to wash his liver.