| Rattled chime, slow ringing echo
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| Roll around in virus meadow
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| Suck enchanted nightshade twine
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| Hear the bells beneath us chime
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| Sinking sermon, priest head murmurs
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| Holy words across the meadows
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| Kissed the plagues' black rolling hand
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| Through his lips the virus sang
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| And the rooks, they seemed to follow him
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| Wherever he goes
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| Flapping in the flat sky
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| Shrieking in the spire
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| Hanging from the lead sky
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| Dangling from the sun
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| The rooks, they seemed to follow him
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| Wherever he goes
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| Nodding thistle, english sun dew
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| Swansneck woman, child-bed meadow
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| Aching shoulders sink and grow
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| As the bells from ditches toll
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| And the smeared skin wrapped limbs
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| Of the night brothers
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| Struggling… crawling
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| Through the empty crack of morning
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| Of the night brothers…
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| Of the night brothers…
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| If you find some major mistakes, or simply wanna chat with
|
| A licensed die-hard Trees-head, just mail me… |