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Francis didn't give a fuck about the rollbacks, the overproduction, reduced demand |
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He never gave much thought to disputed contracts, in his short life, he'd only ever known |
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Panic, fear, pain, darkness, pandemonium |
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In the hell that was his home |
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Fourth quarter earning expectations expedited his demise |
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The panic grew as the humans stalked among them |
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When the screaming began, Francis shut his eyes and felt the hand |
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Of inhumanity brush over him |
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But his would-be killer's back turned for a moment |
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A blinding ray of light spread across the floor |
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In a crimson pool, he saw his own reflection |
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As he bolted for the door |
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Not just some fractured fairy tale |
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Although I wish that that were true |
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This is a fable far too real |
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Yet we somehow still cling to |
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The storylines that bridge the chasm |
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Between cognition and belief |
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Any old implausible denial |
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That might offer some relief |
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From the dissonance that Francis |
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Left screaming in his wake |
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As deep into the heart of the city's park land |
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He made good his escape |
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And where, for five months, he ran free |
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And replayed his only fond memory |
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Just a warm and distant dream of |
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His mother's loving eyes upon him |
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Francis made it farther than she did |
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A quarter mile, just short of the city limits |
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They finally captured him |
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And there's a statue that the abattoir erected |
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To remind us all of their contributions |
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To me it marks Potemkin City limits |
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This Francis cast in bronze |
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Not just a fractured fairy tale |
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Although I wish that that were true |
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This is a fable far too real |
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Yet we somehow still cling to |