Within the tip of a hat, the swing of a bat and the blood of a rat, all my apprehensions reside,
Even with a fighting chance under a heavenly trance I'll never be able to beat the tide.
The melancholy of it all unfolds when the Christmas lights are on display,
So when my desperation moulds into tears, you can finally throw me away.
If the mountains could speak, I'm sure they'd merely weep upon beholding your smile,
But as it stands, they're crooked and bland and we haven't spoken for a while.
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