I'm bored. Ten syllables a line.
We are the lambs to be led to slaughter,
The sons of Adam, Eve's dying daughter.
Can you not see the treachery abound,
In our eyes, our words, and ev'ry sound?
Truth, my children, is a relative term,
But we are touched by your kindly concern-
Be it false, and be it truly misplaced,
As the crimson blood on Queen Anne's Lace.
We sense your fear as the great time draws near;
Thoughts as clear as the visions of the Seer.
Perhaps we were born with such fate, of course-
Our gift is unadulterated hate.