beyond the grave

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Match strikes box Friction becomes flame Slowly, steadily The hand stretches to reach its goal.   1920s, New York A young woman,
Leave crunch as we walk Silently though the dead bodies We pass a thousand graves And a thousand lay ahead We feel so alive Walking through the rotting dead
     Don't mind me here, i'll wait for your pass. I'll wait for your sand to empty the glass.      What's with that face? You look at me strange. I've just been waitin' for diligent mange.
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