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Time: The B*tch
She struts by every second and minute
 With some kind of eternal vendetta
 Life’s a blood feud; she has got to win it
  As each hour passes, her tactics get better.
 
 
 ‘Tis a deep desire, a day would dawn
 That she quits b*tching me once and for all
 And that the accursed aim is forever gone
 For which she’d contrived the drastic fall
 
 They say “all wounds” she gradually heals
 But wounds leave scars and scars rarely fade
 I wonder though how might it feel if she feels
 The pain I felt under her healing blade
 
 And as I close my eyes and descend to bed
 Quietly creeping, hear her soft devilish tread.

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