Upon your mind the impulse raids,
The weaver weaving Weaver shades,
Sordid secrets in your loom are spun,
And every Weaver loves a gun,
In tapestries of surging tide,
I see your lust for homicide,
Matrilinial countenance upon your face,
How she would hate it take that place,
Upon the starry eyes of a loving child,
Who choked back tears and only smiled,
Do you feel that bloodlust setting in?
That Ray did when he couldn't win?
Or will you join, instead, your mother?
Because every Weaver takes another.