You slew your soul, your dreams you dropped
To deign to do what none of us could’ve done;
You bought a cot, prized well what popped
Each time you met her to have worldly fun.
And when she’d vanished from your life
To come back and feign sadness was your strife!
You’d thought we’d then recall the strife
That no one but you had created, dropped,
But boy, wrong you’ll remain for life
Repent if you not for the deeds you’ve done;
And if you wished to have some fun,
You might come, talk about whatever’s popped.
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D’you remember my head’s popped?
By guns you carried once to cause pain, strife!
Thus never would I want to fun,
Discuss thoughts that have gone, for they stay dropped,
The deeds that are dead are but done,
So none shall ever be brought back to life.
For what I want is a good life,
One where I am not called, approached, popped
By men who with not one job done,
Come to churn pots of terror, hate, and strife;
And these acts are planned to be dropped
So men like you may sit themselves down and fun.
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But I suppose there is no fun
In leading what you’re leading – gruesome life;
You think not of superb acts dropped
Before you say the thoughts that stay well popped
Until slain is the mental strife!
And goodness goes on to stand sadly done.
When having fun is ceased and done
Along with that which stays popped, also dropped,
Your life shall no more be a strife.
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