Falls softly on your bare shoulders,
And slowly travels through to your bones,
To speak intimately of soldiers,
Of love who fire from their machine guns,
Of final fantasies,
The message they were given as death,
To you, who wants none of these,
Your smile belies the darkness of the night,
And of your soul,
Just as your hands are lifted up high,
With a sword in both.
And it's alright,
As long as the Brown-eyed Susans are really dead,
The poison gas of indulgence,
Will never seep out of the holes in your head.
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