Now You Will Receive Us

Right. Me and Chad McGreevy decided that we will spill their blood till it rains down from the skies. So when you see us, you will reap it. We also decided that it would be a good thing to do to start injecting massive amounts of HGH and Testosterone. Barry Bonds style. Together we come up with all sorts of cool shit to do, like new tatoos.
When we meet, I'd like to think there will be pasta, candles, wine, side arms and a dank corner. I'd like to think you'd ask me for a favor. I'd like to think I'd grant you your wish. Then, I will inform you that the phrase, "History is written by the winner," is bullshit. I will ask you how the white man treated the Indian as he expanded west. I will then ask you who is the clear winner in that scenario. I will ask you who defeated Rome. I will then ask you who won that one. I will bring up example after example, yet I will not change your mind. Then I will kill you. It's your fault. I hate pasta. If we were eating a Thanksgiving turkey, then I wouldn't kill you. You fucked up didn't you.
I need to shit.
Your legs taste like heaven. You moan like a choir of angels praising the creator. You writhe in pleasure like a large snake stalking its prey. Your mouth opens and your eyes close as you clinch a fist in my hair and dig your nails into my back. I am filled with too much emotion. I can't take the beauty. I want to cry. You pull me in closer and whisper words I can't make out. I will never be able to paint you a picture. I will never be able to write you a poem. I will never be able to replace the sky with your image and have all things live beneath your beauty. I can only wish I were better. I can only make my mouth live in the small of your back every night. I can only live off the feeling you give me and the condensation you share with me.