From The Lab

Wait A Little Longer

Reach out your hand, fair brother,
I will not slap it down,
My help was meant for another
Who was fed raw to the hounds,
But have faith in a stranger,
Look upon me with hope,
I see your creeping danger,
I plan to save you both,
Worry not for these bleeding wounds,
They won't slow me a little,
To think that these would spell my doom
Is foolish and a riddle;
Now I must take my leave,
Though don't distress that face,
I'll soon be back, before you bleed,
And use myself to take your place.