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.