Axes and trains, the bearded cannonball
Brand new campaign, they gargle alcohol
You must soak it up
And it will only rain on miles of prunes.
Oughtta be some law that spawns each maze a grave
Fresh from the morgue to the radiant blaze of ways
There was a laser light
A gambling fight
Put a ten crown bid on the afterlife, dear lord.
Brimstone and factories
That’s where the road way out back leads
Don’t you mean roses?
Don’t you mean posies?
Could you mean hobnob with the doomed, oh lord?
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