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Danse Macabre (The Dance of Death)

Oh streets, your weeping cobbles shine
Against the moonlight, wailing sirens
Beckon those that have succumb
To fill your guttered lines with souls.
Blistered, bloated, wandering lost
Through invalid eyes – flies feast
On stale skin, as deep within
The eruptions pulse to a deathly drum.
One by one they fall in line
Upon swarming sewer drains,
Stacked, like broken branches cau...

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