| Mr. Malum’s got a secret
|
| He keeps when giving speeches
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| Just a whispering precision
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| That cuts through hesitation with a sharp
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| And able wit to keep the dogs at bay
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| When the truth arrives
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| You won’t believe your eyes
|
| He’s triumphs pessimist
|
| But he’s no less content
|
| With the world in the grip of his hands
|
| He’ll crush the air out of its lungs
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| Say, «We don’t want him to have it all…»
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| But now it’s just too late to ask
|
| Because his hold has turned so tight
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| His puppets to the left, and
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| His pawns to line the right
|
| But every eye is front and center
|
| A cool intoxication from the sap that
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| Trickles down his branches to their mouths
|
| When the truth arrives
|
| You won’t believe your eyes
|
| A vicious champion
|
| But he’s no less content
|
| His hold has turned so tight
|
| The air we’re barely breathing’s not enough
|
| In this final gasp that rattles up to bed
|
| The last thing we will see is Mr. Malum
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| Tighten his tie
|
| When he slips in his suit
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| A link to the cuff
|
| And the shine of his shoes
|
| When the truth arrived
|
| You didn’t trust your eyes
|
| You had your chance
|
| But you turned away again
|
| You turned your eyes away again |