The Howl

There’s no sorrow
Beneath your smile
You know this hollow man
Underneath his gilded sight

Yes, it might be me
In a white fur coat
But then maybe is you
Wearing red killer hands

We both run around
Under this howling night
And our restless hope is
We both die under the Northern lights

And yes, sometimes it is me
Running scared, running scarce
But most of the time is you
Howling on high, smiling sly

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