D’flat

Politricks and blind mice, another roll of the dice, the game’s heavy but my spot, light.

Cold winters, the deception of perpetual match fixing.

The depression of a war from the trenches sustained.

Whose game is it anyway?
I know crooked paths because I see straight.

If apathy is your pillow, you could die in your sleep.
Sometimes you’ve got to swim in the creek.

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