Let me write for you a song,
To be sang with sorrowed tongue.
The stanzas would tell of our story
And the lines boldly imply icabod.
It would suit the morning mouners
As they sing to mourn a grave loss.
For we make a tale of two losers
Each losing end to end.
I will write of our rise and fall
How we went from sweet to sour.
How the spectators that cheered us
Now boo and jeer us off the stage.
I'll make a rhythm for an acrostic
For you to play with an acoustic.
The letters would spell out failure,
For that's all we are, nothing more.
Let our song be sang for generations
Let its echoes resound in tons.
Let it stand a stance in history,
Stacked in the achives of "tales of no glory"
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