the decline of Rome was a beautiful thing:
around the Emperor you’d laugh and sing,
pasted on smiles over plenty of warning
while the city skyline is crimson with burning.
spinning like the gold of a fumbled coin,
maybe I’m ready to leave in the morning
but not tonight
while I’m this beautiful man…
I tell you these dreams are hourglass sand
and I won’t even fight
to keep all of this that you think is real;
it’s always been mine and it’s no big deal.
if Rome is burning, then that is fine,
I won’t lift a hand but to drink more wine.
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