The Butcher

Imagine this profession and the duties. 
Dressed in a white apron hanging off his neck. 
The blood and meat on all areas of the white. 
The blade is sharp from tip to handle and driven by his hands. 
 
I look respectful and take care of my life? 
Dressed in plain clothes and possessions only mask the truth. 
The picture of a gentleman but underneath It created a dump. 
It pulls the strings of sin and slowly fillets your morals with Its knife. 
 
The next carcass slides into place on its hook. 
The bloodied tradesman keenly finds the faults on his project and takes chunks away. 
The chunks get mulched for the lowest grade. 
Throwing the meat around as if it's nothing is just like reading blank pages of a book. 
 
It paints my story with tears and pushes me aside for the next show. 
The Bitch seduces me to the champagne room to peel the last ounce of goodness off of me. 
I sold my soul to the Bitch and It took the goodness to give it horns. 
I follow Its steps around because the empty feeling cannot escape Its shadow. 
 
The butcher's job is to cut the meat and portion in small quantities. 
Its job is to cut my sanity and leave nothing. 
The butcher plays with the dead. 
It plays with my corpse. 
 
My God damn death is It’s career. 
 
F*ck Off Angie