His bastard soul had a richer goal.
The head's a start. We'll dice the heart.
Where your end is meet, we reach the feet.
Our science peaks, and cannot cease
Getting nowhere now,
Progress progress.
The forward is, and knows and goes
Our science grows, with Devil's toes.
Oh they have faith,
in clones and clones.
Most carefully in overtones.
"Fuck the hearts," is proof of smarts.
So, my friend, well what'll it be?
Seek that special witchcraft. Four W's and arts. Yeah. Good luck. Poorest of the poor. Bastards of the mind.
Who but harkens unto Christ, well he, my friend, will not be diced.
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