Originaltext
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Now Virgil takes him to the edge of a cliff
And if he wanted, he could spit into the marshes of the Styx
Where bubbles rise to the surface
Where the sullen find their purpose in the end
Now isn't this a pretty picture here
The gargling of words in the murky Fifth Circle
It's a mockery of singing
A grotesque charade, a feigning of a hymn
