Once written, it goes around. Saturday morning, tears are rolling. A melody that keeps spinning. A haunting rhythm, its rhythm haunts. My heart clamors as it taunts. I remember some things forgotten. The memories that kept me beaten. Of a love that refused to go. And stayed to make me woe. The song spins its web of ardor. Each word struck and hits the core. As I listen, I delve into worry. For the lyrics becomes my story. And so the song keeps playing. Even on a Saturday morning.

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Le prochain chapitre arrive bientôt les gars.