The Rag In the Hare
He's always lived in a dark crag, called himself.
Wooing hearts, then rubbing them for a shag.
He wears a noble purple robe, but he's a dirty little rag.
Wherever he goes, there'll be a trail of misery.
A clown juggling an asp on a razor blade dream.
He collects trophies for a twisted, shameful legacy.
He's got a bone yard full of acquaintances.
He's a user of users- a real butthole supreme.
Don't be fooled by the salt and pepper stare.
He's a suburban lynx on an endless prowl.
In a meadow of blonde, blue-eyed hare.
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