Violent Pope

Stole the gold of prose And the fingers sore The well kept hold on no form No form Of dance and culture The joy of pain In manic need to perform No form The shame of prison And vain with taste Devoid of voice still performs No form These ancient soundscapes Of doubt and love Machine in feral No form No form How cunning, cunning the birth of sense Lingering, formed in accident Pale, undressed, confronts the cane Leaves in awe of growing pains Cunning, cunning, pierced and foul Cunning, cunning, shaped in stone Cunning, cunning, birthed in moan Cunning, cunning, bought and sold Blessed rose in rope burns Blessed rose in rope burns Blessed rose in rope burns Blessed rose in rope burns How cunning, cunning, the birth of sense Lingering, formed in accident Pale, undressed, confronts the cane Leaves in awe of growing pains Cunning, cunning, pierced and foul Cunning, cunning, shaped in stone Cunning, cunning, birthed in moan Cunning, cunning, bought and sold