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Rome
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Coriolan
Will you wash your hands in his heart, will you dwell?
Will you pay yourself with being proud as well?
He has a heart as little apt as yours
but it harbours no complaints, no remorse
Coriolan, Coriolan, Coriolan
Coriolan, Coriolan, Coriolan
Wouldn't flatter you for a love forlorn
for he has no equal in pride, in scorn
And what his breast forges his tongue must vent
For it's hard to walk with your knees bent
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