Wrong Cut
Discussing me as hollow, maybe soulless or inferior
And as they slice and probe at things they may wish to preserve
They just might slip and aggravate a last remaining nerve
In disinfected shock and awe I'll open up my eyes
Wearing grotesque stitches as a frightening disguise
I'll let them beg forgiveness whilst amidst their routine gore
Then stand to prove them very wrong... And walk out of the door
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