Where is the clinic where I let out
the things, which run
in my blood?
Because in my blood runs the modesty of the Midwest and hospitality of the heartland.
In my blood also runs the serrated wreckage of hate and ignorance.
When my life source kills, I need a clinic where I let out the things, which run in my blood.
Sit me on your wax papered leather I’ll lay my arm before our syringe no matter how cold or rough if
you draw out all my blood line it up for the centrifuge and sssssssspin out all the detestable dross
Return to me a cherry current of all the grace and love I wish ran in my blood.
