Though I've returned with my head hung lownand my palms pressed flatly, upwardly together,nin due time I plan on leaving againnand when I do my fingers will fold to form a gunnand flip to fuck a chorus of pussiesnwho still answer to that brilliant thoughtnthat revealed itself to them in third grade.nWhat was it again?nnIn this church the clocks have stoppednwhile her bedtime tongue hits my ears undecipherednand my hands send silk to my heartnbefore the skin to my brainnand I know these whispers betray my alchemynand my new religion can set us back centuries,nbut I'm not coming backnI'm not coming back until i can take this with me.n