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A stain on your name. That won't rub off. Like Lady Macbeth. I can only scoff. A wounded soul. A damaged man. Nothing is too low. Or underhand. Chinese whispers. Float round the room. The rumour mill.
I have this friend... Well she's not any more. She spreader rumours about me, Calling me a whore. Honest to gods truth, What she said reflected her...
Beauty queen of seventeen Envy of the girls, All the boys want to be Centre of her world, On her arm, Or so it was Before the storm's Final pause.