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Sick Arts 

Sick

We were born to watch Her burn In the hands of selfish Men Without faith, hearts or concern, For the life around them Since money doesn’t grow on trees, What exactly is their use? Not one of them cares, nor sees That our purpose is not Abuse How our messed up weather, Foreshadowed by the first crown and throne, By those who think they can control Her, Yet are weaker than a lifeless stone   The Earth will go on. With us or without Weather the birds still sing their…

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