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There's a whisper on the wind and it says Winchester, Winchester.
No monster in their right mind would wait to feel the heat of that wrath.
This one isn't in its right mind though, and it wants to see. Is it the rugged one all fear and whiskey, the orphaned ones so pretty, lost, and tall?
The flash of blond says neither. Is this their inherited fury, those men with hearts of cracked glass?
Mary Mary not so contrary, how does your rage now grow?
With death knells and salt round shells, and three abandoned boys all in a row…