Picking crumbs from the beards of others, futile organisms with no spine.
Human lice with no spine slips into a neural wreck of humanity's rot.
Trust
Ripping away, dying. Your breed is weak, the taste of strength bitter to
Your palate of doubt.
A remnant of what was, once left, a relic you pissed
It away. Mour breed is weak, a thing so weak. Mutual downslide into
Mediocrity, you knew better but you pissed it all away. Weak.
