String Pullers All of time has passed Since sentiment last became That curious phenomenon From which I'm marked and stained Never have I been given The pick or conscious choice 'Tis mere workings of the mind It's feelings I must voice Love, lust, anger, passion These famed, infamed words Never before was I privy To these real, tempestuous worlds What is it that I am Why is it that I feel The puppet of a master Who resides within my being.
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Horn Horn
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