| row 1 cell 1 | row 1 cell 2 |
| row 2 cell 1 | row 2 cell 2 |
When I look back, that's when I see everything was wrong
And you looked sad, that's when I said I'd write you a song
Everybody's got their reasons
Everybody's got their ghosts to fear
When I look back all I see is I've done something wrong (Wrong!)
Wrong! (Wrong!)
All I see is I've done something wrong (Wrong!)
Wrong! (Wrong!)
All I see is I've done something wrong (Wrong!)
Oh! My Dear! My tis of thee!
What a tangled web we weave!
Everyone is the one until the one falls down
Then we're all just "Please! Please! Please!"
The painted rust will only
fool the fools for just so long
Eventually, that's when they'll see everything was wrong (Wrong!)
Wrong! (Wrong!)
That's when they'll see everything was wrong
Wrong! (Wrong!)
That's when they'll see everything was wrong
So here's to the boys who fight all the wars you will never fight for yourself
And you can ignore who-ever you want to, but in the end...
Oh! The Shame! Humility!
What a wicked gang are we!
Like a liar looking down on a thief looking down on a killer looking down on a creep
Oh!
This sinking ship will only hold its course for just so long
Eventually, that's when they'll see everything is wrong (Wrong!)
Wrong! (Wrong!)
That's when they'll see everything is wrong
Wrong! (Wrong!)
That's when they'll see everything is wrong
I don't fully understand citing,
says local internet user. They continued with:
Blockquoting is used for larger quotes? Sorry, but I don't really have a longer quote right now!
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out-out are the lights-out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.