You ask me, all the time, about demons, witches,
Which live within your mind, within your good and bad.
You know and you do, you do disturb my stitches.
You try to see me happy, but want to make me sad.
You are impressive, stunning, but bitchy and malicious.
You try to make men lucky, but men capitulate.
Your truth is not a freedom; it's cranky and suspicious.
Accepting guilt and horror, your thorns are made of fate.
FOF