Heavy the Growl

I was in fact, a murdered butcher's boy. A son, caught in the fire of another man's dangerous idea. I died in 22 hours, after bidding the doctor's note farewell. I saw all my teacher's & classes, fulfilled each & every wish. But to cut the call a short, another short, a shot, hot shot of tens of tens. The lens. A fringe on the edge of hoods & beams. I was the son of a madman, but the madman was me. I say that in the least artistic form possible, I must remind you, I'm dead.