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In the darkest corner of the dingy street,
Lies the gaudiest nightclub Stormy Knights.
Where the crucified Goths and urban freaks met,
Amongst the black satin and cat fights.
The ladies dance on tables, poles and cages,
In all different costumes and disguises.
Ladies that range in size, colour and ages,
Each of them a dark watery prizes.
The male waiters serve more than drinks,
They will give you your hearts desires.
They do not care that your soul has kinks,
They will set your serpent heart to fires.
The queen of this club is Mistress Misrule,
Palest skin enveloped in blackest lace.
She makes both the men and ladies drool,
Sex with her takes you into outer space.
Her hour glass figure and large blessed breasts,
Her collection of whips and chains.
Attracts both clientèle, perverted pests,
The blindingly beautiful and brains.
In the club every hour, every day,
But the heaven is a distracting lie.
That sort of bliss you get when you pay,
Misrule will not make you cursedly cry.
Misrule will allow you to be yourself,
She will make your beloved sadness end.
Your loneliness will be place on that shelf,
In that climatic moment, she’s your friend.
Takes negative pain, makes it a plus,
Her technique, pleasure equal to death.
Screams are such a useless hurtful fuss,
That is cause no man has taken her breath.
Forever used like perfect sexual toys,
All she wants is beauty, truth and love.
Forever used by ladies, men, girls and boys,
Because nobody wants you, you soiled dove.


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