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Eject the beast from my back, that cracks my spine, defiles
bones, moving on to other conquest, however, does the demon
meet his maker, by blind faith, lacking the will, gaining the vulgarity
for his crimes. Entirely fool hearted with your psychotic killer stalk, rotting 
corpse posed, but a prowling feline.

I never noticed your yellow eyes before; they get soiled more with time,
breathing cigar smoke, stank and vile, but yet I thought I was a samurai,
feeding my sword on blood twice spilled, how often tempted, redeeming 
does not constitute how you kick your habit, toppled over slit throats,
fumbling limp limbs, your bloody art does not comprise justice. 

I use my words, not just my blade, dragging men into the dusk, with 
sharp knifed tongues,  full fingered hammers, and cold blooded wit, 
presuming the dusty death of ash will devour, my voice box swaggers with
the foresight, your drudgery belittled by the cold clash of steel, yet mastering
swordplay is not enough, splintered riddles kill.