A throne is only a bench covered with velvet

Ah hell
Not again.
stuck in a hole
deep in a pigs pen.
Cold and void of all pearls
I still find comfort
In the small recesses
Of solitude.
Ah hell
This again?
Smells like chitlins,
Tastes like pulled roast.
With hallowed eyes
My salvation awaits
As master sharpens
His bloody butcher knives.

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