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Time: The B*tch
She struts by every second and minute
With some kind of eternal vendetta
Life’s a blood feud; she has got to win it
As each hour passes, her tactics get better.
‘Tis a deep desire, a day would dawn
That she quits b*tching me once and for all
And that the accursed aim is forever gone
For which she’d contrived the drastic fall
They say “all wounds” she gradually heals
But wounds leave scars and scars rarely fade
I wonder though how might it feel if she feels
The pain I felt under her healing blade
And as I close my eyes and descend to bed
Quietly creeping, hear her soft devilish tread.
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