Flicking the switch will erase the ailment,
But who opens one with labels on his head?
The headache continues, with ready work,
But wounds display a little pride and you concentrate.
They say the sound of the mound is dire,
Their statements are exact in the senses,
Yet headache is still headache,
And the wounds you master are complete.
Never are the thunderous men with full wounds,
Selfish devils entertain the switch in the decade,
When time will flow and obliterate,
Levels of hunger shall be sustained like the flick.
My head has bandages with equal blood,
The blood of the innocent and maimed,
Letters are badges for the senior and old,
Young hearts will hear into the furnace of love.