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It's easier to think of Him as a barstool Isn't it? Stained A dark amber by the liquid He drinks to forget you Standing on your lofty hill Like wearing a white robe And pretending your staff Into turning into a snake. It must be hard To take the mask off At night, when the streets Greet with cobwebs and cardboard Not shrines or tambourines And in your bathroom mirror You see through his eyes Where permission is finally given To hurt someone.