He washes the blood,
That which covers the floor of this room,
Scrubs the grease-scrubs the mud,
In hallowed halls meant to serve as his tomb,

Because death is a gift,
One that he'd be in luck to receive,
To use love as a lift,
Instead silence reminds him to grieve,

Don't you feel the disgust?
Because in six years your body has aged,
You no longer draw lust,
In no time he'll have some new boy caged,

It's okay to laugh out,
What a joke that you thought you'd suffice,
He was in a brief drought,
You were only to sustain his vice,

Men like him, men like us,
Dissociating to handle the hours,
Not one to fight or to fuss,
Or resist the deep pain that devours,

I would die for your cause,
I would shape up these muscles-I would slice back the skin,
I would go without pause,
Lobotomizing this brain, use me just for your sin,

You could make me a husk,
One that keeps all your secrets but has none to relay,
You could forget me till dusk,
Till the worms eat my body and you throw me away.