| And over all the land is a shadow
|
| Breathing and alive, but still invisible;
|
| A tainted cloud, the lord of the flies
|
| A silent, drifting miasma
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| That coils and creeps into every soul
|
| Then alters and spoils
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| It shows in little ways
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| In meanness and in petty spite
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| In ignorance and cruelty
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| A beaten child, a ruined river
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| Desertion and betrayal;
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| Every heart a potential Judas
|
| Every soul willing to sell cheap
|
| The land is overlaid with discontent…
|
| And yet, somehow, we still believe
|
| A hero will come, a shining one
|
| And deliver us from this biting evil
|
| That Arthur and his Companions
|
| Still sleep, unwaking, waiting
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| For the clarion call to save us
|
| That in our last hour of need
|
| We’ll all be swept away and rescued
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| By some fabled Jesus and a last judgement
|
| And in this faith unspoken
|
| Unmentioned, a sort of hope
|
| We wait, and wait, and wait, and wait
|
| All unknowing, that the only heroes
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| Are us |