And the stars themselves shall hide
I feel it searing and burning my insides
The anger growing, pushing sense aside
My heart races, my blood it boils

How dare they speak of me
How dare they even think of me
Low life bringers, bellies on the ground
I bet they slither without a sound

Begging for scraps, at everyones table
To think for themselves, they're not able
Careful now don't throw that away
They will judge you everyday

Just one minute with one I ask
I will do more damage, then kick their ass
I have an issue with anger, this I know
People would pay money to see this show

I would like to see them suffer slow painful deaths
Let's make little dolls and prick them to death
Their skinny little necks wrapped in barbed wire
Then throw in a match to make a wee fire

Caring for nothing but their internal greed
Let us prick them more and watch them bleed
They think life is a cover of a magazine
I have another idea......let's soak them all with benzine 

Burn baby burn.......burn..........burn.........

Life is hard,cruel and cold at times.......
Why do you think we make these rhymes?