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Either all we can be cannot be foretold,

or what we become is what we behold.

She rode through the desert, a little girl lost,

together they formed a religion he thought.

She sat at his table and slept in his bed,

she fed him the spiders that lived in her head.

He gave her a god and he offered her grace,

she said that he fell down a spiral staircase.

She called him a bastard, he called her a whore,

warrants in hand, police knocked on her door.

Either all we can be can still be undone

or what we behold is what we become.

A pound of flesh does what the bones never do,

she bit him in two, she bit him in two.

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