My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.
It seems unpleasantly refined to put things off till someone knows.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
Law makes long spokes of the short stakes of men.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.
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