Children of the wax poetic land
Endear themselves to me
And I to them, I let them in
Suckling on the teats of sin
They cry as milk pours over them
The harvest ready to be had by them
Their hearts of gold are dripping red
And there’s paint soaking my lead
Hollywood snakes slither near
Inside us all grows the fear
Of the same old harmonious dignitaries
They keep on searching
Flailing themselves recklessly.
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