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When the credits finally |
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Roll for this, the |
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Worst story ever |
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Told, don't bother |
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Sifting through the names |
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For yours or anyone you know |
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Unless they were by chance a shepherd king |
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A virgin birth, a resurrection, a messianic prince or some such childish thing |
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You can storm the edit suite |
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Or move to block its theatrical release |
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But I think we can safely guarantee |
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There will be no revisions to the script made on behalf of a supporting caste |
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Because history exalts only the pornography of force |
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That of murderers and psychopaths |
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The rest of us, of course, stricken from the narrative wholesale |
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A backdrop to their tale |
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As we, the two bits |
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Are ushered on and swiftly off the stage with |
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Jawbones of asses |
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No stirring curtain call for the masses |
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No floral bouquet |
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No breaking of legs |
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No recurring role |
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No artistic control |
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And so in these days, in this terminal phase |
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It's all left to chance |
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A piece of advice, if you're cast on thin ice |
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You may as well dance |
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Do what you feel you must |
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But as for me, I was not |
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Put upon this earth |
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To subjugate or serve |