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Schörde
My chords become swordsTiny little bladesFloating around in the airThey’re made out of pure soundDirected towards my enemiesWhich come at me in hordesI point and I prayI get on my kneesI plead with the lordNot to be seizedThe lord is not pleasedBut he grants my requestSo off with my headAnd now I can restFor I
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Da Lyricist Physicist
I’m a lyricist physicistAnd I aimed for the starsI was told I need to aim highSo I could buy shiny carsAnd score golf parsBut I don’t know whyIt seems like quite the farceI let out a sighRealise that it’s all a lieBecause it’s all the sameIt’s all the sameReaching for fameJust look how lame I
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Depression Session; Inability for Expression
Woe, woe, woe – woe is my foeCreature from hell, down from bellow Yo, yo, yo – yo I’ve fallen lowUp and down, the string of sorrow No, no, no – no I cannot growThere is so much more that I doth not know I want to run and run and never look backTurn the
