The end :music:
The songwriter’s dead
The blade fell upon him
Taking him to the white lands
Of Empathica,
Of Innocence
Empathica
Innocence
The dreamer and the wine
Poet without a rhyme
A widowed writer, torn apart by chains of Hell
One last perfect verse
Yet still the same old song
Oh Christ, how I hate what I have become
Take me home
Get away, run away, fly away
Lead me astray, to dreamer’s hideaway
I cannot cry ’cause the shoulder cries more
I cannot die, I, the whore for the cold world
Forgive me, I have but two faces
One for the world,
One for God save me
I cannot cry ’cause the shoulder cries mo