Dirty Moon
Wandering through the cataracts of a foggy night
whispers are spoken behind trees, beyond your sight
Your chest bears the weight of some dirty grub
who has snatched your ticket but left you the stub
You can only wish that their time comes soon
and witness them cold neath a dirty moon
But for now you must wait within the damp bracken
for a well deserved revenge for all that has been taken.
Anthracite 
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