My old girl looks good in sin. She can without but can't within. In bottles of her sipping gin she tried on her but fell on him. We tried to lose but had to win, with minds like hearts and hearts like tin. I chucked it all into the bin (apologies sound forced and thin). An empty palm, a broken chin, it seems I failed to let you in. If letting in is half the game the oldest sin's the one to blame. But, damn, my girl looks good.
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