| We drove the long way home,
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| past the prison gates and through the years.
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| And at the side of the road we saw a faceless man
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| whose old grey skin held his ageing bones together like an oversized leather
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| glove.
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| And whose eyes sank so far into his skull they seemed as black as the midnight
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| air.
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| But this mans gift was his words.
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| He told us how there is a fine line between order and chaos,
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| that there are those in life who do not know what they are fighting for,
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| but that it is the fight that counts,
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| and that a man without principles is a fool only to himself.
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| And the years past and we never saw him again.
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| The eyes held a crystal glaze, but the scent did not return. |