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Georgia Fields
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Seven Years
Seven years under your silver tongue
Under your rule of thumb
Eyes so tight I saw stars
I saw signs, rosaries round my neck
Pickled in tears, these weather worn years
Kept the memory in a jar with some
Salt for the wound, bride for the groom
Wash out my mouth, wash out my mind
Tracing the cracks in your metaphor
Holding my ear to the bathroom door
Chalking one more line upon your score
For seven years, seven years
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