Galoer
Gaoler
You’ll feel obliged to make them happy
You’ll cut your hands, because
You want them to be happy
But if you’re not bleeding
You’ll starting to feel guilty.
They’ll remove your spine
And you won’t feel resentful
Connect your limbs to strings
and make you read your lines
If you stutter,
They’ll make you feel guilty.
After you’ve killed your self,
They’ll start to mould you
into a clay figurine
And keep you on a shelf
Where your life is written in stone
And you’re the gaoler.
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