The future sticks out its tongue
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In the eyes of the gentle past
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It fears its own demise
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But knows it cannot last
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This momentary throne
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Precariously formed from its ashes
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It takes the time we thought
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Was ours below to be reborn
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Throw us away like a stack of old paper
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Learn not from our scrawls
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Close your ears to our rantings
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And come against us
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Flex your hooked claws and sniff
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Like a dog at the stench of our decaying minds
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Distrust the deceitful math of our perishing eyes
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Run away from the phthisicky past
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Phthisis
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The 69 Eyes |