On The Island
de The Confederate Dead
Won't climb up, waive mast, shake flags
The weight of your noose lays a hundred pound bag
I filled it with "not", I filled it with "no"
All of the things you taught me to know
Hold close to grace, hold tight the glow
These, as it seems, always first to go
Washed by lies or fist or crown
Shame the rope's too high to touch ground
Time's as able as I am well
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ACETATE
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