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||Next to poor men in the ground|
despite the beauty all around
the things you built while you were there.
You sold your soul and no one cares.
||Bang your head on marble floors.|
Slam your fingers in oak doors.
Maybe you can make up for them,
the times you raped the weaker ones.
||All the while the money smiled,|
and bought you far ahead.
You heard what moral men have said,
but you gambled it all on God being dead.