A poetic insult; seen through a tankard of alcohol. It is cheap thrills, but it still ain't no crime. Questioned of the many masks worn, "façades" they call it, well it was how I was born. And I can't speak of the lies we create; of the lies to hate, but to wipe your soul clean, my conscience is dead. Commenced in the days of three hundred odd, I've conjured a need to belong. There isn't really much more left to say, but to count my days; numbered.