Burnt Blood

He is sitting in his chair
His favourite place of despair
And he thinks and thinks and thinks
Of the blood around him that stinks

His fingers marching on the keyboard
Watch his sleepless eyes sored
In a distant screen that's empty from behind
And how the creator has been kind

Clueless as hell as he sits
His butt boils in the bottom in bits
Moving himself a li'l bit
He thinks again of the same old shit

Tapping his feet to the drums
That beat in his ears, he comes
To a hault when he looks around
To measure the futility by a headcount

And then he imagines a dead pang
That blocks him of the time that stang
For an instant before he returns
To the blood from bites and char from the burns.