Metal sang through cloth and flesh,
A thousand shards of crimson pool
and I struck at him with murderous finesse,
with vengeance as thy tool
Just to rend his gut in all my power,
to see fear of hell in his eye
each second of pain, the span of an hour,
Run him red 'til he turn dry
Who say I am hell-bent to see this death?
Who claim I lust for blood?
I merely find it sport to test,
why this crimson does taste so good?
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