An Idola, who deserves the persecution that comes with
the eyes of a hungry audience.
The Lion greedily roars, depraved in hunger and gifted with I, the sacrafice.
Big Top mentality, the bigger the crowd the thirstier for bile, that drips into the cotton candy machine.
I have crossed my eyes with x's, until I could be accused of a clown's facade.
I deserve this, with the roar of the spectators as above me the acrobats dance their ballerina performance.
I can hear the Calliope roll through the circle
Spinning in a sort of
Unfitting for such a scene, however I do not deserve an orchestra.
Sinful Idol of a society's circus that breaks my breath with the crushing rope gasp of the lion's jaw that hangs me from the tight rope.