And the games still go on With a warning to the bishop from the pawn No one sees an angel till it smashes to the ground And then you run somewhere And leave it lying there Then on we sail Never thinking that the wind could ever fail No one gets to heaven till they've lived awhile in hell And even then it's rare That you'll be going there Now we understand. All traces of Magica must be eliminated. Infection. Infection. Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete, Delete delete delete delete...
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