We hang like hangedmen swaying in the wind
Face to the air which we might as well be pissing in
We hang like hangedmen vestiges of disease
The world has wrung our necks
Our feet sway in the breeze
Futility is fact
These words were found
By my fingers at the back of my throat
As went fucking digging
Digging for hope
And all I learned from this
Sycophantic shit
The blood and bile
Hours of denial
I found the reasons why I quit
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