My place gated, raised among strays, scabid percentage 80
Crept into a better place at least, pack still back in the streets
Unspayed, crawling with fleas
Baying at butcher’s bins for leftover meat
Became leader, no one’s been able to touch us since
A sense of sins seen: once saw a guy get touched up close
Bone crunched, blood gush, butcher rush, even now I wince.
Alchemisland 
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