I can't say that I won't miss her. Neither can I say I would. Sometimes I just don't know how to pick emotions to suit my mood.
And perhaps I should go too. There's nothing holding me back now, except myself.
Nothing's the same. What can I say?
And I'd just wish real hard, because most regrets lasts a lifetime.
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Sing a song of six pence, A pocket fill of rye, Four and twenty blackbirds, Baked in a pie.
If they were baked, won't they be dead? Besides, who wants to eat filthy blackbirds (IMO : crows) unless it's black chicken. Childhood songs are sadistic at times.