The blood...
how it paints such a scene
foul routine pedigree
mouth agape, stuttered hands attempt to flail
and finally agree
her heart ceases its rhythm
somewhere trumpets decay
in the front by the well wishing wishes that deny the stale smell in the bay
there, no one cry
place these over her eyes
we are broke and alone
we are broken alone
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reserved, always playing the part
of the boy left alone
he proceeds to the road
beyond the home he'd learn to call his own
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