Post by Lyric on Mar 4, 2009 5:46:55 GMT -7
Up and down the King's Highway
In and out the Eagle,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.
His hums filled the alley, echoing the haunting sounds off each brick. If those walls could talk, what stories they'd tell. Of bang tails and robbers. Of blood and sweat. Of tears and forgotten woes. So many things had those walls seen, but nothing compared to the horrors that they played witness to now.
With every deliberate stroke of his arm, he guided his hand through its mission. The scalpel's razor sharp edge glistened in the sparse moonlight as it sliced with grotesque ease into her pale flesh. How beautiful she looked to him now. Her onyx hair half across her face, hiding her delicate features; shrowding the almost peaceful look of death. Her body laying limply against the dew wet cobbled ground, abdomen spread wide displaying the breath taking crimson of her tender insides.
As he began to remove one now dormant organ after another, his hums grew louder, almost gleeful. With each part of her that he stripped away, his heart raced all the faster. His excitement spread threw him like the milk of the poppy. Intoxicating him to his very soul. There was no comparison in his mind. No way to truly know a woman. No way to be so close to her. Than to be inside her. To feel her life, her blood, her flesh against your bare hands.
For you may try to sew and sew,
But you'll never make anything regal,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.
Her body was his canvas now, and he felt such the artist. He could make of her anything he wished. How beautiful she was, bathed in an endless river of red. She was his muse now. His perfection. Stripped to the very bone and free of the world's ugliness.
How he loved her then.
In and out the Eagle,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.
His hums filled the alley, echoing the haunting sounds off each brick. If those walls could talk, what stories they'd tell. Of bang tails and robbers. Of blood and sweat. Of tears and forgotten woes. So many things had those walls seen, but nothing compared to the horrors that they played witness to now.
With every deliberate stroke of his arm, he guided his hand through its mission. The scalpel's razor sharp edge glistened in the sparse moonlight as it sliced with grotesque ease into her pale flesh. How beautiful she looked to him now. Her onyx hair half across her face, hiding her delicate features; shrowding the almost peaceful look of death. Her body laying limply against the dew wet cobbled ground, abdomen spread wide displaying the breath taking crimson of her tender insides.
As he began to remove one now dormant organ after another, his hums grew louder, almost gleeful. With each part of her that he stripped away, his heart raced all the faster. His excitement spread threw him like the milk of the poppy. Intoxicating him to his very soul. There was no comparison in his mind. No way to truly know a woman. No way to be so close to her. Than to be inside her. To feel her life, her blood, her flesh against your bare hands.
For you may try to sew and sew,
But you'll never make anything regal,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.
Her body was his canvas now, and he felt such the artist. He could make of her anything he wished. How beautiful she was, bathed in an endless river of red. She was his muse now. His perfection. Stripped to the very bone and free of the world's ugliness.
How he loved her then.
