For some, a final resting place:
Into the arms of holy grace
Goes a creature so profound
That her feet don't touch the ground
Where broken's fixed
And potion's mixed
Feed the dying -
Where the crying
Are plastered with her lying bones
And stitched up with her final moans.
Now, pills can fix an awful lot
But as her hallways start to rot
She won't grow old, nor settle down.
The biggest graveyard in this town
Will be a place we cannot share
A place entitled: Virgin Care.
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