Our lady in the abbatoir. She's hanging headless, charred. Baby on her
breast - there's nothing left, the milk turned to powder, Twist her, she's
an hour glass - but time has died. The blast was final. Captain's flat down
in the urinal fixing cos he's sick of shooting shadows.
Our lady in the abbatoir. She's hanging headless, charred. Baby on her
breast - there's nothing left, the milk turned to powder, Twist her, she's
an hour glass - but time has died. The blast was final. Captain's flat down
in the urinal fixing cos he's sick of shooting shadows.