String me up on a cross,
With ropes of rotting moss.
Release the demon under my ribs,
In impious, odious bits.

Watch as it enters my eyes,
Becoming all which you despise.
Listen to my mouth's sin;
Drown in the scramming din.

My veins bulge and burst,
Covering you in bloody spurts.
The stains, they'll stay,
Right up until your dying day.

And if I was not any smarter,
I'd even consider myself,
A martyr.