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Red, the colour of my rage,
Red, the colour of the wine that this bottle once held.
Now I hold it, above my head, like a club.
I stand still, like a statue.
Red, the colour of my rage,
Red, the colour of the blood inside his skull.
Once I see the earring reflect in the darkness, the bottle comes down.
He lies still, like a statue.
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There is no such thing as strong coffee - only weak people.
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