There’s a rope for you and I,

But I doubt you’ll dream of it first.

Did you know the taste of the boot?

The taste of iron?

It’s everything to me you know.

It’s written on the wall, you can feel it.

The scary, the horror, of what?

The speed in which young men run or in which you’ll run?

You’ll need to be faster than the clock if you want to survive. Book it through another alley, another lacking tip- another tip of my axe.

You’ll be stretched just like my shame.