When she sings, infatuated
Like a machine, we are
Her eyes wear an endless trip
Like a machine, we are
No more we will be slaves to her
Tell Corey what you thought of this poem in the guestbook.
Feelings can not be satiated
Thus we both grow frustrated
Her voice has us castrated
DEFRIBULATED
Death will become us.
From her sharpened glass we sip
Words divide us from her lips
And at our hearts she always rips
DEFRIBULATED
Death will become us.
Lead our own lives and nothing more
Women are just overated
Nothing more than DEFRIBULATED