Born dying like mice born blind,
but in time won't mend.
No victory of its kind,
but to the grave, descend.
Born lying like a poker blind,
big or small, it's all in hand.
No remorse there to find,
certainly not the love we'd planned.
Drag me out in the undertow.
Drags me into his world below.
No hope or happiness bestow,
rather in the cargo steamship stow.
So wound in possessed dance,
crouched in haphazard stance,
taking no greater chance,
not daring to dream of love's romance.
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