Book of Andre

I care now for silly echoes,
I assume the worst of my best shows,
And of eggs that don’t hatch,
And goldfish that move fast,
What you’d think if I do what I have long promised in hymns,
If your death will be any better than mine.
Let us settle this now.
Open your bibles to the Book of Andre 11:11,
For lo, when the devil’s eyes shall upon my head rest,
Verily, which mouth doth I use to announce the curtain call?
Verily, which smile wouldst make her see my forever con?
Which flavour of death will make you fear fools?
How good must thine syntax be in a death note?
Behold, a quandary,
Do cowards spell in English or Brute?
For verily, I hereby bestow my best riddle,
Nothing but gospel truth.
A razor, a smiling vein, A gas leak,
That I am left merely but bird bones and a lose tooth.


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