Blood from the pelt,
In his heart he felt,
Was belonging to god and the devil,
And his wife of revel.
He wiped it clean, but it wouldn’t come off.
The dirt stayed on, the deadliest cloth.
His hands covered, his head in agony.
There was no escaping the epiphany.
He was destined to be a killer,
Always his hands in dirt.
His head filed with hate,
The death of his mate.
He killed him through his job,
Like a man, there was not one sob.
He left his body,
Lying for the noddy.
The pelt was his best friend,
A man for which there was no mend.
His bones were broken,
Never to be awoken.
So he would live as a killer,
For there was no higher pillar.
And that would be it,
A man destined to hit.
He was the killer forever.