Burnt Orange Express

Vulture like sentinels waiting for his expiration date to pass
Its a skeleton key with hot wheels
Its a dark turn for the Art of the Deal
Its the color of someone unwell
Its a train headed head-first to hell

The conductor is the devil himself
He breathes fire toward the Fat Orange Elf
He will meet his maker one day
And it won't be a roll in the hay

No one will hear his wild screams
This won't be the place made of dreams
Karma will scorch his hind end
For the hateful life that he led

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