They're the rogues of the street, assassins of the night,

Burying the knife beneath skin,  stitching it together tight,

Leaving a scar of deadly sins, littering their faces with cloth,

Eyes inflicting the slightest shadow, flying by, an insipid moth,

Cracking the ice of lethal disease, beneath a melting past,

What they once called was common sense, wrapping a defenceless cast,

Believing fallacies, 'kill or be killed', true victims of the world,

Underneath is a dying waif, beneath a shadow he curled,

Skin as soft as saccharine peaches, hands as cold as heart,

The earth has tainted an innocent child, penetrating him like a dart.