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The Tormentor

And he talks; and I listen O how this ever goes on! Quiet sometimes,others loud as train whistles Why not let in peace my wretched soul? But as balls t'ward theirs goals So our savage joust goes. He pulls ever at my strings So that the white cloud no longer sings So that a white thought no longer swings For that drink of relief Amidst my desert of torture.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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