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I've been at so many crossroads |
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that I've forgotten all the turns |
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and I've spent all my money |
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on ways to wipe out my concerns |
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But the therapy in a tall glass of gin |
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is not something that leaves you blissful within |
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in the morning |
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the daylight is broken |
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just like the night before |
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and we keep sending a mayday |
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that never reaches the shore |
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The more that you sleep the more tired you get |
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I try to forgive but it's hard |
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When you turn me over |
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to the war |
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turn me over |
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to the war |
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the therapy in a tall glass of gin |
|
is not something that leaves you blissful within |
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I've seen so many faces |
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with masks made out of clay |
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so stiff and immobile |
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just like the games they play |
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The more that you sleep the more tired you get |
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I try to forgive but it's hard to forget |
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How good it would feel to be senseless and numb |
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to not really care at all |
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When you turn me over |
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to the war |
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turn me over |
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to the war |