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This farewell won't send itself and the postmark's on fire.
Take me back to the middle of the winter, overtones and exaltations.
God knows we can't hold the olive branch.
Take it for what it is, not for what it was.
Come on, cover.
Ghost am I if grave are the anchored.
"Hold on to what you've got,"
well, what I've got's thrown overboard.
Tracing the trusted, transparent signatures,
written on the marquee, shining in the spotlight.
Vindicate the downfall, gotta get the shot right.
Blaming the vested, we all choose our courses.
The line in the sand that we drew with our hands
is bringing down the backdrop, ringing in a new scam.
Grave are the anchored.