"What more could be said?"
Twenty years, seven months and twenty-seven days,
I may as well be dead.
But be born again because the mind needs to shift,
And we aren't much more than we think.
Unless you take into account our bodies.
They do provide us with a brink.
I used to like it all, and then I got bitter,
And now I just berate with ink.
Soon I hope that I can lead a revolution,
After I perfect my ability to tink.
And it's alright,
If you don't know what I mean quite yet.
Soon everything will fall and the time will be right,
For us to invent a new way to repent.
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