[Verse 1]

Tick tick boom, [bad word] from a sick sick goon with a lit wick fuse
Cause this is me yo, this is you now
pretty little devil in a business suit dress
All black, stock mask and a couple MAC 11s that he kept [bad word] back
For the contact list of the kids Sean passed
‘Cause he never got to get a little bliss, all laughs
Admitted culprit, he etched his name on some bullets
As he filed down the trigger that’s quicker when he would pull it
He cracks as a smile as he sauntered down the hall
And just fired at the occupants and started singing
 [bad word] 

Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers now?
Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers now?
Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers now?
Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers?

Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers now?
Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers now?
Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers now?
Do you really want us to sleep in my bed of flowers?

[Verse 2]

Now with both guns drawn, no one gets to wonder why he’d go nuts for
They just [bad word] towards the sun, but blood
Is covering the windows of the closed-up doors
And everybody’s screaming thinking that they got to get away from anything
And everything now resembled…
And when that smoke left the barrel it looked like flower petals
He thought about his mother, brother & sister
And when he kissed her and hugged her to show he loved her and missed her…
He closed his eyes as the tears fell down his grimace
When he shot himself to finish it
…and dropped a note that said:

“My bed of flowers is covered in dying tulips in jumbled poses
And tightened nooses made from the [bad word] roses
I hold the messages inside rhododendrons and violets
And view irises through blue irises
I broke the daisies next and sliced a narcissus
I’m a narcissist who’s been choking on my Baby’s Breath
And I might breathe
If I withstand it from the crysanthemums inside my poison IVs”
 [bad word] 

[Outro]

Are you prepared to wander through the endless sea of a thousand blind eyes; a brazen routine filled with characters who will never know your name? Where you are nothing but an outcast, a broken villain that the zombies circumvent for the sheer pleasure of avoiding eye contact?

Will you fall asleep in a bed of wilted roses? Do you really want to gather along the path of a man who has nothing written across his calloused face but bitter memories in shaky, misspelled calligraphy?

Because this, oh holy muses… this is his bed of flowers.