The weaving of swords
We surrender the chalice
I perform with malice
nightingale abreast
and do I descend upon
Creatures not dead
A broken woman
With an evil battered soul
I'll tell you my
You tell me yours
Let the world land an applause
for evil
Way beyond its design
Has seen a sleuthing
Whose lost her mind
Power corrupts the skin
Those who yearn
To taste it. Trim
Apply a seat
Wretch sword from.stone
For little Arthur
Rides alone.


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