“Spartacus, Spartacus, please,” our angels cry in unison
A play that they play to please: codifying nature’s warring songs
Spartacus, Spartacus, please, you could have laid your weapons down
Suffering plays to please, and makes the breeze feel slightly warm
And the light of this morning shall rest on the shoulders of nearly everyone
And the hooting of this owl reminds me of a saxophone played for the dying sun
Wine equals rage and life equals rain, and the storms still stun
Senses no longer can register bitter from fun
Spartacus, Spartacus, flee, the troops will throw their throwing bombs
Angela Angela pleads, “Run to my father’s town!”
Spartacus, Spartacus, weave, your cloak has a hole in its flank
Angela Angela leaves, her eyes cast down to the river’s bank
And the light of this morning shall rest on the shoulders of nearly everyone
and the hooting of this owl reminds me of a saxophone played for the dying sun
The audience weeps
The stage set is steep, and the nails are long
Islands there are where you might buy a sleep for a song
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