| There are some who are born distinguished
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| There are some who are raised in praise
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| But me I was always the last in line
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| A blot in my father’s gaze
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| No cheekbones chiselled on a feline face
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| No skill or savvy with a sword
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| But this game we all play is won in wily ways
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| And sly is this littlest lord
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| Cruel tricks of romance
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| Degraded by their spite
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| You snub your cub too many times
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| You just might feel his bite…
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| Beware, beware of the words I twist
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| I am small but my reach is long
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| And the ravens black against the winter’s mist
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| Are whispering the half-man's song
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| They’re whispering the half man’s song…
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| The land is a blooming orchard
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| With fruits so juicy and ripe
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| With a clink of a coin loose the lion’s loin
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| Play a tune on the half man’s pipe
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| In the arms of a whore I made a promise
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| Sinking deeper into danger every day
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| Cut through all their shit with a brazen wit
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| Molding puppets from their minds of clay
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| I’m no man of honor
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| Myself is my true king
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| But somewhere deep within me
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| The bells of conscience ring
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| Beware, beware of the words I twist
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| I am small but my reach is long
|
| And the ravens black against the winter’s mist
|
| Are whispering the half-man's song
|
| They’re whispering the half man’s song…
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| Whispering the half man’s song… |