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They
are still moving and know how to act
Their
manners are careful, not very direct
Their
looks are perceptive, producing unrest
There
was a time they thought to be the best
Now
they are garbage, the filth of the earth
Even
for a stove they dont have much worth
Still
too much juices that black out the fire
But
just by going on, well stay in the mire
I
know were taking that same trodden path
Caught
in a treadmill, called Lifes wrath
Escape
is a lottery, held on a steep cliff
You
are lucky when pushed by a whiff
Yet
most will go for the common stage
The
pandemonium of a massive old age
Eras
craved for by millions in a row
Only
one question: which way to stow?
Still
dreaming of your eightieth year?
Cheered
by the kids and all that are dear
Its
a fantasy sounded by a fake bellYoull
be knocking on the gates of hell
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