When prophecies speak of victory
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There is still a need to fear
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May the gluttons fill their plates
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May the crowds of fools cheer
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A southern fire rises
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From the bay of Buccaneers
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Who despite the hell spawned winds
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Decided not to stop here
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In the face of defeat we fought
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No excuse we make
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Our time was bled away
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With everything at stake
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Abandoned veteran
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Of a doomed crusade
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An Eagles last flight
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To take away our faith
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Bodies will rot, through bodies I wade!
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We have seen heroes
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Bleeding every day
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Running from a curse
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That will never go away
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The wind blows coldest here
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The ground itself is dead
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Most vermin died here early
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As the bigger rats were fed
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Nowhere left to go now
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The best we still can¡¯t trust
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Tear down my kingdom
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I will spit on the dust
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Let The Fools Cheer
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Rumpelstiltskin Grinder |