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!
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.