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Another stain, wipes, over the face |
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Of an entire, clutch, of reasonable guys |
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I flip a coin, seems, the luck has run out |
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It's 2:40 and the clocks are wrong |
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Another stain, matched, by the reward |
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Another work, made, to show off the pose |
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Another way, stop, and show some respect |
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For those trying and abandoning |
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I want something that, something that I can't see |
|
Through the prism of stigmatism |
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With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure |
|
Feed the kids, the E numbers |
|
Feed the kids, the newscasters |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
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Where do our tantrums go |
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She seemed to know how twisted is this |
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My back is ricked, spiked, down to the spine |
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Lie flat on floors, with vertebrae down |
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Pitch perfect like a slamming door |
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But when it comes I'll be prepared |
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This off course rain jostling down |
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Blaming the mind, or, anything close |
|
You can't put it on forgetfulness, so |
|
I want something that, something that I can't see |
|
Through the prism of stigmatism |
|
With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure |
|
Feed the kids, the E numbers |
|
Feed the kids, the newscasters |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Zoom out at speeds with sharp intakes of breath |
|
Heads spinning up in the corners |
|
Closer than it even began |
|
I want something that, something that I can't see |
|
Through the prism of stigmatism |
|
With a white lie, the shrinking of its structure |
|
Feed the kids, the E numbers |
|
Feed the kids, the newscasters |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |
|
Where do our tantrums go |