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Georgia Fields
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Seven Years
Seven years under your silver tongue Under your rule of thumb Eyes so tight I saw stars I saw signs, rosaries round my neck
Pickled in tears, these weather worn years Kept the memory in a jar with some Salt for the wound, bride for the groom Wash out my mouth, wash out my mind
Tracing the cracks in your metaphor Holding my ear to the bathroom door Chalking one more line upon your score For seven years, seven years
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