He runs to his
printer
Cranking up his
sound
Telling the workers
Let us get the work
done
The years of
silence
Suddenly he woke up
to see
What has gone wrong
in his time?
He has no power but
his memory
The tales came
Much to our dismay
He hasn’t come out
good
He sounds to fishy
to read
He uses his sorry
tales
Saying he is straight
and good
But the money
trails sink him deep
Into darkness he
has made himself
He is trying to
divert his blues
Sitting tight on
his shoulder
He makes up his own
tales
Saying how good he
was
He runs to his
printer
Printing copies to
say his blues
The tale can’t be
true
He took him years
to step out of it
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