And in case you were wondering, about, my being afraid... of music.
The cause?
Flowers, for thee in a basket, filled-with-roses-my-joy-of-life... and picnic tables.
In search of an identity, only I'm lost in the wilderness called upon by no one else's name.
There's a distinction between mystery and a mangled opera singer hanging from a vine.
Corpses, rigor mortis or a hope in prayer I ask?
Where's the music gone... only survives an accident of polka. Polka on a dance floor!
Roll out a barrel and the naked streaker without a date of birth to call their own.
Within this, I've managed to complete a greater challenge already.
Quite a farce, a force of nature if you will indeed comply with that.
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