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Rated: · Poetry · Death · #1876697
I need some serious help.
The Devil's Broth.


Now it's time to go to sleep,

The Devil has my soul to Reap,

A lake filled with a million tears,

Can never wash away you're fears,

All you're dreams and asperations gone,

What corner turned did I go wrong?

Mixed in there be a thousand lies,

plus several hundred baby's cries,

I myself begin to drown,

As further more I got pulled down,

Deep within the darkness well,

Was fear that I could almost smell,

Death himself had come to tell,

My soul was his and he would sell,

I was forever in thee loop,

One more poor soul for Satan's soup.

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