and yea shall MOw down the wicked...

or in some cases, the wicked have tread the girl. The charges don't bother her. She could laugh off two bullets, the trade of life: his for hers, hers for his. She's tried at playing god; failed. You could say she's learned, but then, she did get arrested recently. The lady-cop said with a smile or a smirk it's just a bump. A bump in the road, humans humans making stops along the way. She stoped to write warnings; something bad for buusiness and something true. There wasn't enough time. There wasn't enough ink. She's not sorry, only guilty.

Ink is worthless. It surges now for all the years (all the cocks) that never payed, that she payed her body to and...

dreamed of murder, complicated, brutal... She doesn't have a gun maybe, when things blow over, she'll stop wanting to use one.

She found something after the cop talk, after the lawyer talk, after the joking: Behold the day comreth, that shall burn as an oven; and all the proud, yea all the wicked, shall be stubble: and the day that cometh shall burn them up, saith the Lord of hosts, that it shall leave them neither root not branch.

Yes, let's leave them neither root nor branch. Yes, let's burn him. Like his mother did. Like his Ladie does. Like he burns inside. Lets's synchronize the abuse.

She prays, sometimes. I come and smite the earth with a curse.