Bishop Tears Your Pawn

Pull my daisy baby; stem first then the prideful petals burst exploding like a beastly piece, a swinging beat echoes soft and sweet. We beings, being humans with strings and keys, ask questions about things to people with pure ologies and lessons to sing. What funeral music to the men who choose it, asking my questions, proving to prove it asking only about holy Holy wondering if music that comes from my mind so low is holy enough to the man who is home free. But if heaven is earth and living is strife, hold my hand take this knife cut the fabric of life, my quilted patchwork; for reality hurts in the minds of the lonely.