Leech کے بول

Here drives the janitor to refute range so gently rendered to illogical strains Within its path lies a coat that turns where once intent is now rendered infirm This is the haute couture of the leech that preys upon its subject in an eminent way I can't play the Roman fool and die of my own sword What fool the beggar when he gets no gets no reward Fuel my revulsion with a nerve so strong so vile Here comes the rain here it comes again Ride your own waves and waive the rules of fair play Who keeps a straight bat when the umpire turns away? Play the frail equal as the tide turns towards you But tea and sympathy has never been one of my strong points