| Before the war, this grave darksome pall
 | 
| Pressed upon the face of England
 | 
| We were sovereign to nothing less
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| Than the map of our souls solicitous to reign
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| Together in a peace these wicked times disdain
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| Then empires saw much more to gain
 | 
| The Crown discounts our loss
 | 
| Life cannot count the cost
 | 
| These numbers fount like water
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| The dead, the dying, those on route to slaughter
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| Valentine sweet spine entwined
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| I am sorry that i left you here, in time
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| I will find, the path back from the other side
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| So keep a candle burning
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| In your heart that is my shrine
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| No Momento Mori
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| For he passed away
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| For faraway glory
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| So tear the pages
 | 
| From this castaway story
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| Spilling tears
 | 
| Fill her lachrymatory
 | 
| She seeks to pierce the veil
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| Melancholia
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| Speaks the fiercest tale
 | 
| Weeks are growing lonelier
 | 
| Ever stonier regailed
 | 
| Love’s bond responding
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| Beyond the pale
 | 
| The planchette is promissory
 | 
| Purveyance of this Seance
 | 
| In obeisance to the spirits
 | 
| Before their dismissory
 | 
| The Crown discounts our loss
 | 
| Life cannot count the cost
 | 
| These numbers fount like water
 | 
| The dead, the dying, those on route to slaughter
 | 
| Valentine sweet spine entwined
 | 
| I am sorry that i left you here, in time
 | 
| I will find, the path back from the other side
 | 
| So please accept my kisses
 | 
| Through the whispers of the Ouija board
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| I suffer alone
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| So far from home
 | 
| Watching you from a distance
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| A shadow’s persistence to roam
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| No time to atone
 | 
| You flower alone
 | 
| Beautifully graven
 | 
| You cut a black raven
 | 
| Whose tower has flown
 | 
| No Momento Mori
 | 
| For he passed away
 | 
| For faraway glory
 | 
| So tear the pages
 | 
| From this castaway story
 | 
| Spilling tears
 | 
| Fill her lachrymatory
 | 
| She seeks to pierce the veil
 | 
| Melancholia
 | 
| Speaks the fiercest tale
 | 
| Weeks are growing lonelier
 | 
| Ever stonier regailed
 | 
| Love’s bond responding
 | 
| Beyond the pale
 | 
| The planchette is promissory
 | 
| Purveyance of this Seance
 | 
| In obeisance to the spirits
 | 
| Ghosts that haunt amiss, amie
 | 
| Winter seems far colder
 | 
| Without you by my shoulder now this year
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| Faith’s blinding glare advanced to frost
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| Finds her there, entranced to cross
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| To breach death’s porous border
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| And reach where breath affords no quarter
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| Helpless, I see her resolve harden
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| This is where it ends
 | 
| How the wretchedness portends
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| The knife in her hand
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| On the stretch to the promised land
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| And this is how they found my light
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| Clutching tight that fateful telegram |