Plucked from the bosom of my mother,
Bruised, beaten and left out in the sun,
Resteained In whites and caged in a box,
A release I seek, with a flame i shall meet,
And for naught but the devilish pleasures of the humane,
Fraught with loss and riddled with pain,
I burn away at the whims of men,
I won't dish out! I won't complain,
But with a dying breath an answer I wish to claim
"Can you tell me my dear, why am I the killer?"
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