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To be born is anything but this |
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The dying wish of a dinosaur's dish |
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Of no use, a shitty gift like a single slipper |
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I go diffuse in city quick like the little dipper |
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She's cute with little titties and a sense of humor |
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But to tell you the truth, sir |
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I pity the poor fool, her |
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Fruitless in a holster and clueless in a kiss |
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I'm older than death |
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Vulgar with unfresh breath |
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During sex I might put us in some joke positions |
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But it's scary always how we end up in missionary |
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Like the daring men who fight to submission |
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Barely conscious there to care about the split decision |
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Your sour thoughts you wield at me |
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You wring out your melon |
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But it yields only drops like an unripe lemon |
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All a man can understand is your bad intentions |
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The less you talk the more you draw and seal and ending |
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Keep leafing through the glossary |
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Sitting there puffing weed |
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Telling me repeatedly all the things you want to be |
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The thug's just a boy once my money in the bags |
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Is your love but a ploy like Bugs Bunny in drag? |
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I leave my lungs open, exposed to the whole crew |
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While you sneak a bump and smoke cloves in the coat room |
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Itching like a local ho |
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Wishing like Pinocchio |
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The wind is at my back anew |
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But still I feel the lack of you |
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Oh, you were so heavy in my heart, boo |
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That soon no longer could my true heart hold you |
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And like the angular Etruscan tchotchke my mom got me |
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At the Met gift shop in '92 |
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Tearing from the brown paper bag I kept it in when it was new |
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After I left it overnight when it was wet with dew |
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It sounds blue and shitty |
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But of course kid, like the little skinny bronze horse did |
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You fell through |
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You were like a buoy I put down in open ocean |
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But with no cross staff and no compass in my possession |
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And too far out for a lighthouse to provide discretion |
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How could I presume that you'd divine direction |
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Must have patience |
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Accept no imitations |
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Take no paper hearts and fucking hate carnations |
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Though my home is vacant |
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Yeah I'm lonesome while I wait |
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That's no open invitation made to hope we make acquaintance |
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The long walks home from the laundromat |
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In Pop-Pop's Holden Caulfield hat |
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Alone, lost for certain |
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Dry and pent |
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Dead bent like a merchant ivory gent |
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Yes, to yet get a spouse and kids |
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Have a house full |
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But I'm hard to be around |
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And sterile as a roused mule |
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Preemptive nostalgia of the possible but doubtful |
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Preemptive nostalgia of the possible but doubtful |
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And always something reminds me of you |