I started the fire, I sharpened my knife
As the wood crackled, I looked at the Father
He seemed to be, softly, praying. [For his life?]
The blade i threw, into the fire
The Father still scared, still pale, still praying
Would he relent, under Master's ire?
He kept on his chanting, the saint. HIM.
The anger rose in me
And madness once more, took hold [a whim?]
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