Troupe the colour with pastiche and plagiarism
We write then we recite our own words
With the barest minimum of critique
Although, as you know, before I met you
I didn't even write at all
My soul didn't spit out any sort of ache
My rages kept inside me, by the thin
Twists of barbed wire, also the corrugated tin roofs
Even today as I get caught behind a farming machine
I ask what on earth can it mean
All these people needing to work on a Sunday
Don't they know that that's the sure way to ruin
That's the road whereupon
The wheels will always fall off
Don't you dare scoff
For I'm sure it's all part of the reason
For the that of whatever happened between us
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