Paper child, child of paper, crucified to a glass skyscraper, praise god to the medicals, praise god to the stale pills. Forty-one stories above ground, the people on the streets wind around like a snake charmers silken cobras, praise god to the medicals.

Sound the death bell for the paper children, clean-shaven, hanging from every building. The god of needles, looking oh-so-sexy, fuck that nauseous smile on your face. Sound the death bell for the paper child, the audience is glowing red and wild but the wolves with leather faces cackle at your life. Living just to suck the blade of the knife. The stigmata wounds widen the lamposts spin like vomiting angels.