In The Garden I Will Die. In

With Their Souls Of Patent Leather, They Come Down The Road. Hunched And Nocturnal, Where They Breathe They Impose, Silence Of Dark Rubber, And Fear Of Fine Sand.

All One's Personality Is Embedded In Gloves And Hats After They've Been Good And Used. Show Me A Glove And I'll Tell You The Character Of Its Owner.

Men Like To Pleasure Us, Girl. They Like To Undo Our Plaits And Give Us Water To Drink From Their Own Mouths. That's What Makes The World Go Round.

I Want To Be A Poet, From Head To Toe, Living And Dying By Poetry.

In The Garden I Will Die. In The Rosebush They Will Kill Me.