She pours from the ceiling,
The antecedent of an amoral God
A blackguard, a machine swine-driven.
I am poor, cheap, and operatic.
My pen cleaves as with sedition
But the only blood on my hands is ink.
The baritone whisper of my heart
I belong exclusively to the revolt.
She is the revolt, a cause sans denomination.
Axe handle secured to my naked thigh
She is the dark horse on which I ride.
Just having a bit of fun here