| In polished leather armor
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| Compelling dark snake charmer
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| Twinkling stats on night lit skies
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| Like fire surrounded by flies
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| Possessed by fame, fortune, glory
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| Refusing thoughts of getting hoary
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| Called it the privilege of youth
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| The creation of one’s truth
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| Believing in invulnerability
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| And this night’s bride’s virginity
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| We’ve got a few minutes to sell
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| We had our share of the painter man’s spell
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| And it might be good news for you
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| We’ve got even more, it just came out of the blue
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| Possessed to take the dragon’s fire
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| We’ve smashed and killed
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| Even those we’ve admired
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| Staring at the crest to ride
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| Our souls were sold and hearts began to hide
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| Driven by madness we’ve fulfilled the spell
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| Just to find ourselves in a wasted hell
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| With no more dreams of invulnerability
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| We’ve lost the belief in virginity
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| The shine’s gone, the armor’s tattered
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| Silently thankful, we’re still flattered
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| A second serving out of clear skies
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| The gods have even thoughts about the flies
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| An aided recall of fame, fortune, glory
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| For those old knights we are already hoary
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| Called it the privilege of lucky sods
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| Even battered, to beat the odds
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| Dreaming of invulnerability
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| And this night’s bride’s charity |