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Your Hands Are Red

Your hands are red, And there’s a knife in my back. Blood shed by blood, A war within a home.
What is it about my blood, That gets you so drunk? Is it that I am my Mother’s son, And that your thirst did not die with her?
But the last laugh will be hers, And the tables shall turn. For even if it be a man’s world, This man will fight for Her.

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