The cryer limps
With a hole in its chest,
With muscles sore,
Wearing a crown of blood.
Words like knives,
The throught is their sheath.
But it's always the broken hand
Who draws the fastest.
Always the bleeding heart,
Coerced to stab another.
Always the reddened eyes,
Most ready to make another tear shed.
Why, oh cryer, must you cry?
And tear the pity from your eyes?
Why? Oh cryer, why?
With a hole in its chest,
With muscles sore,
Wearing a crown of blood.
Words like knives,
The throught is their sheath.
But it's always the broken hand
Who draws the fastest.
Always the bleeding heart,
Coerced to stab another.
Always the reddened eyes,
Most ready to make another tear shed.
Why, oh cryer, must you cry?
And tear the pity from your eyes?
Why? Oh cryer, why?
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