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Skulls

As white as the moon,
The head of Death,
Comes to take soon,
To come to take your breath away,

To hate and to hate even more,
There comes a time to like,
As you head out the door,
you never forget, It's like a strike,

Farmers use a scythe,
To harvest crops,
Death uses a scythe,
To harvest the souls he never drops.



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