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Hand Me My Sickle
Hand me my sickle,
Too long I’m a knave,
My fingers are growing weary,
Of the purses I’ve mislaid.
It’s been a long, lonely winter,
With the field, white with snow.
Hand me my sickle,
Take me to the nave,
Said I’d repent when I was broken,
But I’ve been led astray.
It’s been a long, lonely winter,
With the fire, burning low.
Hand me my sickle,
The catacombs are lost,
This spell is undying,
I was born on the cross.
It’s been a long, lonely winter,
With the water, running slow.
So hand me my sickle,
Too long I’m a knave,
My conscience is growing dreary,
Of the persons I’ve betrayed.
It’s been a long, lonely winter,
With the field, white with snow.
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