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It seems that every time
I trust one with my life,
the piper calls, with songs sublime,
and cuts me like a knife

I don’t know why I waste my thoughts,
on the promise of a child
a little loose, those thirteen knots
they’re a noose, those childish lots

Such abuse, from a piper styled,
pied in cloth, mouth in froth
makes me feel a little wild
to trust a child, my hate compiled
I swear this is the last
time I trust another,
but I’ve said that in the past,
mostly to my mother

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