The Stitches Come Undone

There's a layer of dust upon the throne
And a row of stitches come undone
If they'd held together tightly
There'd be no purpose for a song
Or the drapes that shut the daylight from a home
Lady Grey is justified in red
In an oak wood coffin, in her bed
In her mind it makes no difference
If she's defiant or dethroned
Or the secretary-general to the dead
California, leaving all behind
For deep cuts, hard labour in the mines
Disenchanted with the vision
Of them that toiled so long and hard
From the crossroads, the lost highway runs the miles



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