And the games still go on
With a warning to the bishop from the p___
No one sees an angel till it smashes to the ground
And then you run somewhere
And leave it lying there

Then on we sail
Never thinking that the wind could ever fail
No one gets to heaven till they've lived awhile in hell
And even then it's rare
That you'll be going there

Now we understand. All traces of Magica must be eliminated.
Infection. Infection. Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete,
delete delete delete delete...

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