In the mud.

He makes me illWith his repetitive quips-Its like he has spilledAll that he sipsNever caring if it is distilledOr from someone elses lips;He'd have killed(Me)Till dripsOf bloodDid flipsAnd went thud-Like whipsIn the mud.Cause with meHe swore he was witnessingSome great horrorLike my sickening state of existenceMade him look for more,Or less tenseOf a woman.