I fell victim to the cataclysmic rhythm of whine,
Retelling to sell it just one more time
All fermented from being vented,
Renting out what was not mine.
They borrowed heavy sips,
But could not grip the empty bottle
For its fullness was forgotten
And rotted with the vines.
Excommunicated by the sheer momentum of time,
This empire declines from no variety, just sin.
And sobriety suffers the buffer from within
With a story, save glory, in which the bad guys win.
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