Hindered I am waiting for the moment of your bleeding My heart is throttled like an hourgla** in its middle, While my thought yells with epileptic throbs I am looking at your orifice And I say to myself: maybe you are dead, Maybe I am in a nightmare, in which I find myself in an abandoned slaughter-house There is no another explanation Which for the horrible pestilence You are emanating that of a corpse Carved and abandoned to the worms But here is the answer: Is not blood that you're spitting Between your legs, But a feminine flop So, in the end, I'm gonna try To finally do something good - I'll forgive you!