Oh, the damned vermon how you graze on my leg.
You wish to sport, you desire me dead beneath the ground.
All that remains is unsound, my flesh lay still, my heart silent under this darkness
I have sensed the macarbre, the rotten death of a serial killer coming back, within this moonlight Sweney Todd attacks, that razor that brazores his hand with the blood and undefined individuals so vividly as he wroughts the reaper’s will, herunto a world that clampers in a mill, his shadow, undected, his modern voice projected at a loss of morality to create an utter, even an errie sound, yet here I stand encompassed in common heracy, these people fo rthey do not give to God’s wishes, they’d moreover decimate me than be speared themselves by the evils of theft, fo rthis my friend has no mortal end.
The Damned Vermon
John Alan Hale