The Wretched

The dirt is piled high in a dark room where I would hide
The spirit of my step mothers ghost creeps up in every corner of this place
The silence of the pig she slaughterd in the cellar
You can still smell the stinge of bloodshed upon the fallen bricks
My life was in the haunted sculpture of her face in the dining room
The tormented taste of raw lambs meat and pig brains we ate at the table
The Wretched wiitch is still alive in the condemnation
Of my brain