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Beautiful Lyre

I am the prince of principalities
But evil I am not
I am the king of formalities
Yet lies fill my draught

Enter my manor of manners
Abysmal abode
Filled with peaceful planners
Horrors are stowed

My tongue is of the finest silk
Made to be taut
My eyes are like the whitest milk
A soul, surely not

Yes, I have many fiendish friends
A very pleasant lot
And now, here your story ends
I'll enact my master plot
Written by ConsequentialChaos
Published
Author's Note
In this poem you will find nothing but contradictions and lies. Talk of splendor, and then retreat. Even the title has a double meaning, and contrast.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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