Tired of the lies
Tired of the will I will I
Sick to the core
Didn't I swear to
Padlock the door?
Didn't they say it would kill I kill I?
Number three or a number four
I'Ve fucked her proverbial lachrymous sap
And the noonday sun blooms purple petals and black
Which fall on the earth sending memories back
Can one ever escape her somniferous fate?
She silently whispers:
"Too late; too late"
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