Unoriginal Sin.

The hounds of hell are coming for you

after what you've done.

Broken hearts and bloody mouths 

aren't healed with malt and grain.

I heard you screaming out my name,
cursing all I wouldn't do.
I locked my doors, bolted my windows,
you broke through the wood.

You took my words, covered them with salt,

and fed them to the crowd.

You're not the first, won't be the last,

you're absolutely nothing in between.

Your belly is filled with your own mistakes,
though you spat them in my face.
Speed off now, down the southbound highway
with all your unoriginal sins.