There's the bad one with a bad pride complex,
He is driven by mere instinct and primal reflex.
So it happens that he is the strongest of the bunch,
Every word that he says hits the core like a punch;
Every deed that he does makes it deteriorate in pain
And feel sorrow and despair and simply drives him insane.

Every drop of adrenaline goes straight to his head
But then he takes control and beings the anger parade.
To the sounds of the cry, the abomination is compiled,
Now it turns to the sweet, sorry voice of a child:
He's too dumb to be cruel, but he doesn't really care
Because he's nothing but a mask worn out of despair.
He's the cutest little thing but he doesn't have the balls
And when the wrong thing is said - again, the evil one
calls...

When the two collide, all words banish into laugh
Which is the only action taken in the core's own behalf.
But not these two extremes are the closest to the core,
Which is there, bare, shaking, in internal constant war,
For the closest of them all stays there most of the time
And he can't even see the trouble, gore, pain and slime.
He shows no emotion but a brief "I love you"
And occupies his mind merely to live it all through.
From there the core sees, hears and at times participates
Because he is where this ruinous habit of his incubates.
And in fact he, the real man, is the worst of them all
He's the ugly, disgusting mind, the tainted lonely soul
But the really crazy one, is the one that sings this hymn
She is the wretched poor woman that would never leave him.