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Below the pipe that plays the wind,
Above the acid sea,
Is the place where pain begins:
It thrums, it thrums in me.
Right of limb and left of lung,
Sealed by seams and skin,
Sings a song too often sung:
It hums, it hums within.
Far from wombs which do not bleed,
Behind the cage of bone,
Weeps the wood with strings that plead:
It strums, it strums alone.
Crimson bright and scarlet sweet,
With lightning flash and thunder beat,
Drums the red rogue drearily
The rhythm cruel of misery.
And so it comes, and so it goes;
And oh, it knows my woes,
It knows.
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