Rap-pida-rap-pida-rap
Hands move of their own accord, shoulders burn.
Rap-pida-rap-pida-rap
A small red bag swings back and forth, keeping the rhythm.
Rap-pida-rap-pida-rap
None of the worries of the day matter, just stay with the rhythm.
Rap-pida-rap-pida-rap
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Twice the fun than beating a mime with a bat, with half the guilt of kicking a puppy.
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