Her Fault
Across the circus ground
Where bells and whistles sound,
You took a coin and spent
It at the gypsy’s tent.
She spun you in a spell
Of ecstasy and hell,
And charged you some more gold
To have your doom foretold.
She offered you the use
Of stars for an excuse
To blame both years all gone
And yet to happen, on.
From womb to burial vault,
It’s all the gypsy’s fault,
Yet when she comes once more,
You’ll run to her tent door.
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