My very bones shudder at your touch
Listen to my heart, it beats as such
this sensation so great, I sink to the ground
The hilt of your sword glints in the mound
of scattered dreams, with broken faces
a nostalgic scream, of displaced places
Indefinate voices are ahead of the crowd
This is what they solemly sing aloud
With pickets and pockets and pickpockets who pick,
the pockets of the old, of the dead, of the sick
comes nothing of good, no better desire
to wish you had pickpocketed, you dirty little liar
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