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Who would of known? To the lips of a failed writer To crash a cup of wine To throw a toast to an islan that's slowly sinking I can almost hear you Hear you crying Momma you are killing yourself Momma what can I do? And I'll be the one putting pins into my fingertips Only to erase the memories And to laugh when I think what my father did She sits She waits She toasts her prayers Not speaks of them Momma you are killing yourself Momma what can I do? She sits She waits |
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