my violin

you’re always there when i have to sing

my sad songs of sin

you’re the queen of my abstract life

the main attraction at the head party

you screech like my soul possessed

the grating sound of a filigreed complaint

the hurt of my solitude and its bard

the shameless fiddler waiting to be paid

and i got no money

but yet, you still sing my woe

when it is time to close the show

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