When the days are cold and the cards are fold And the saints we see are all made of gold. And they dug your grave and they masquerade. When the lights dim out all the sinners crawl.

_taylor_24_

When the days are cold and the cards are fold And the saints we see are all made of gold. And they dug your grave and they masquerade. When the lights dim out all the sinners crawl.

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