Set the mantles like stone hard inside the man,
as she plants her wretched iron trees the only gasping patrons are those whose arms come loose injured in a bullet breeze.
She somwhat resembled the pope in that hat though her lonely red cross suggested that shed help thos injured and take of their legs.
She created ant hills for all to stand taller and scalple dreamers and thornacators, she hinted suggestions while bathed in red though not my sight come midnight when a grotesk celebration of light would twinkle with dire consequence.
She was the mother in the green tent the healer who manipulated panoramic distortion, untill that is we dismantled her fake forestry and thats when she flew like the rest of those who mocked us.