Scalpel, stimulate, and medicate
Nothing to change, only to sedate
The pushing, pulling, and tearing debate
A war that rages, no end to its date
Some call it soul, others a fate
One side, an urge, to masturbate
Upon the broken mirror, the fruit of the grape
The other, a mounting hate
The drive, the violence, the state
Of the animus, a cold-served plate
Despite the prognosis, there is no escape
The only solution, to cut, castrate
A swift, cold finish
To diminish
The thoughts that perpetrate
Our grand magistrate