When time is on your side, my vessel chill/
On the past, I dwell/
My innermost clandestinity is scorched as stone upon the grill/
Piece by piece, it peel/
Ah...the cold air has more sorrow than I smell/
When time is on my side, your finger tip flow/
For the future, you swollow/
Your distinct frigity is callous as ice in front of the arrow/
Again and again, it throw/
Ah...the vivid sound has more grief than you grow/
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