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Okay, I think by now we've established |
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Everything is inherently worthless |
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And there's nothing in the universe |
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With any kind of objective purpose |
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And you could scream for a hundred years |
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Split that sky with a thousand curses |
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To tell the evil that men do |
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Honey, you wouldn't even scratch the surface |
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Still many implications |
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Not enough time to make them explicit |
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Too many generalizations |
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Not enough time to make them specific |
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And I spread my vile seed |
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From the Atlantic to the Pacific |
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Now I'm begging you on my knees |
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Please don't make me get down and sniff it |
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Cause if I got more comfortable |
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Surely, I'm more complicit |
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Fat off the fruit of the tree of ignorance |
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I was born into this and now I'm dying because of it |
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Yes it's us against them again |
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Smashing the system into the dirt |
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Now we gobble brown M&M's |
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Put the whole thing onto a t-shirt |
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I heard about Audre and the master's tools |
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Something about Joe chasing a storm and the mug |
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I could've swore I saw the lord of the strummers |
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Standing on line at the salt mine with the slugs |
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And it's a such weird world |
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It feels real wrong smiling |
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Sea to shining sea, Jersey sliding |
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And I'm fronting like a living boy on a long island |
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I heard them say the white man created existential angst |
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When he ran out of all the problems |
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Cause the thing about those problems was |
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Typically, more money will solve them |
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We're breaking out of our bodies now |
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Trying to see what's underneath them |
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Or about my pathetic self |
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What would I say if I ever were to meet him |
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I guess "You're guilty of a terrible crime" |
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And I know it was my birth |
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Doing twenty-six to life now on planet earth |
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I was taken into custody by a janitor |
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You know our life is laborious |
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But admit it's predictable |
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When all the figures are fungible |
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All feelings are malleable |
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I'm desperately addicted, but functional |
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Don't want to be evicted from the wonderful underworld |
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Look at this youngish man |
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Already half way off with his pants |
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He's doing something weird with his hands |
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He's got a multitude of outrageous plans |
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And he's still trying to cough up |
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That which he choked on in the churches |
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Look at him now loitering in front of a vacant storefront |
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Bearded and bedecked in army surplus |
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Don't know why it's so hard giving a shit |
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When everybody's telling him he's full of it |
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He forgets if he felt oppressed or depressed |
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Or which one came first in this crazy mess |
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If he had taken too much or not enough |
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Or which one was the worse one with this sort of stuff |
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And he was so so unsure of feeling ignored |
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Was half the pain of being observed |
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And that's a lot to say without a word |
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But I know it's a lot more than just being bored |
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I know it's nothing more than just being bored |
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I know it's a lot more than just being bored |
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I know it's nothing more than just being bored |