Lonesome

Once, there was a child,

his skin blood red.

He never smiled,

he always bled.

The others hated him,

they knocked him down.

all hated him, his life was grim,

an angry crowd threw him out of town.

There is where he met a man,

his skin bright purple and his head horned.

The child had a plan,

one fit for one scorned.

That town is no more,

all their buildings are just scrap.

Its people now only gore,

and you shall not find it on any map.

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