Lucy Steel & The Spire Sire

Holy Lucy wholely ready for the golden gun to start the fun of steel ball run 'cause it's almost time for the one to become undone so the purple plum punch at lunch can launch the magic conch shell & sell sea shores to hellish cores coloring crime in lines with false signs so green tastes like sour lime instead of the Sweet's rhymes & unaware of the sugar skull one carries inside the corpse of Christ that can make spring fall for any & all who naw on youth like Satan's sleuths killing kids full of Truths yet nothing to do 'cept sit in the booth while parents order wine & nothing to dine pretending the quiet kids are fine 'cause they ignore every single sign of broken minds running out of Time like all of mine who tried telling then yelling & finally selling their souls to hell for a dime - might as well when in hell 'cause just like Roman roads - all good intentions without intervention lead 2 cold hell of burned out desire fires that no longer inspire the grand sire of the spire who just wants to retire his tired tires with ∞ miles & wear clear tears from tearing out hair while tiering peers near piers - but that's just not quite his style to quit & aquit apathy's sin good men commit when they sit by awhile in the sky all the while Wiley kids slit my wrists 'cause they can't twist fatality to fit inside such an absurd reality spinning life full of strife when the causality is the wife holding a knife to the throat of hope & then whispering "nope" when all they're doing is their best & trying harder than God to cope with eternity's infinite slope using anything other than a hanging rope like a wedding ring the crimson king gives when one can't prevent him from singing to kids who can't yet invent infinite consent to trade life with lies for time outside the fall out boy so soapbox immortals & death can elope 

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