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Cast Iron Echo

Nothing no nothing never
Not love never nothing no
Not nothing never hope nothing never
Not ever.
All the good from me is severed.
Sin's the lever that propels
Me, the muse that compels
Me to create more sin still.
I drink it up; I'm never filled.
My idols all are idle gods,
born not of Heaven, but of sod,
Holy only in my head,
Existing only 'til I'm dead and it is said
and I believe that nothing's worth the time to grieve
once it is dead as dead as dreams
Dull as the pain that sorrow brings.
Dull as a drink-dim drunkard's mind
That weeps at thoughts of other times never hope nothing never
Because no thought, however clever,
Can save us from reality,
And no hope changes what's to be.

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Mr. McCormick told us that he often writes poems about pretty things that bring joy, but that this poem is not one of them.