You're like an infection
a festering wound of the flesh
you're never happy unless pestering
keeping the pus flowing fresh
Ignoring the problem just spreads it
until it's under every inch of my skin
til the pain is so thick i can't feel it
it grows green and sickening
No medicine can heal the affliction
Retort is an oil on the burn
No use to tolerate your infliction
I've learned that this just reoccurrs.
the only solution is to amputate
to cut off the limb that is lame
For us it seems to be too late
to salvage the dying remains
the germ that you beget is growing
rapidly forging its fate
its host it is slowly destroying
but no more will you irritate
I will go numb before I go insane
peeling the dead layers away
scraping away the worms of your bane
meanwhile you will be left to decay
