Waging Tongue

Stop, don't stop Looks like wanton banging,criss-crossing Paths jammed,benign smile The trade is passed on Touching in haste Caressing in fearsome worry I'll love gently with my eyes up Shoulders high,flashing red The black signature of the opus Illuminati... Did I say anything now? They're on their way to the market With boiling eyes to serve me...,I To their customers as desert May they burn and soothe In cold ice ash,my heaven for them Since they wouldn't shed off the dew leaves I've refused the morning sipping shrill May you rot as Amadioha's wrath fetch you out Will you survive the god of Iron? Ouch,what a pity.