These were
The last line’s
That he drew on paper
They show that on some museum
Making a whole case about it
Behind that clear protective case
Are some pen’s that he used to place
On his writing desk
Some critics even deemed him the best
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He was laying all the suspects to rest
It was crime novel that could stand the test
Of time, and it was filled with spider web rhyme’s
From the start
To the beginning it flowed
Like you were hooked on some dope
Bringing the old into the new
It was his destiny to spend all that time
Writing in some shack made of stone
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”NO” He said
Not in this room
Can i conjure up a story
That can hold the world in it’s grip
So he took a trip
Sitting in steam trains of old
And met some jewellers dealing in gold
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The price of a gram
When he wore that bracelet
The words they just flowed from his hands
And he became a believer in the olden traditions
How it used to be made
How the writers laid their words on the page
When it still wasn’t the digital age
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Really the world was filled with those who tried
Still yet though it was more about the life
The style of how to write
Not only about what you say
Or how it’s laid out on the page
And on his hat
There’s was a card
The ace of spades
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