Deplete the withering of one thy's soul.
Someone who swears by God, but does not know.
Only to come, to fold everything once done.
And wonder why God, who Michael he shuns.
Stole his shit, his bitch, and his clique.
Reminiscing on a 50 Cent song, just a lil bit.
Too fit for Nick, the Saint falls through the chimney.
And has no legs, like Southpark, named Jimmy.
To deny one's passion, is a fault of one's soul.
Reminding him of the past, then I remind em' to let it go.
No more show, the snow falls down.
And he swears to God that he's Betelgeuse the Clown.
Unbound, unsung, unlike, then depart.
His name is Sam, they call em' Mark.
The Mark of the Beast, so fitting for it's time.
Drinking lost souls, their blood is the wine.
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