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He sits in your room, his tomb, with a fist full of tacks |
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Preoccupied with his vengeance |
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Cursing the dead that can't answer him back |
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I'm sure that he has no intentions |
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Of looking your way, unless it's to say |
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That he needs you to test his inventions. |
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Can you please crawl out your window? |
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Use your arms and legs it won't ruin you |
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How can you say he will haunt you? |
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You can go back to him any time you want to. |
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He looks so truthful, is this how he feels |
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Trying to peel the moon and expose it |
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With his businesslike anger and his bloodhounds that kneel |
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If he needs a third eye he just grows it |
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He just needs you to talk or to hand him his chalk |
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Or pick it up after he throws it. |
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Can you please crawl out your window? |
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Use your arms and legs it won't ruin you |
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How can you say he will haunt you? |
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You can go back to him any time you want to. |
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Why does he look so righteous while your face is so changed |
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Are you frightened of the box you keep him in |
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While his genocide fools and his friends rearrange |
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Their religion of the little ten women |
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That backs up their views but your face is so bruised |
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Come on out the dark is beginning. |
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Can you please crawl out your window? |
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Use your arms and legs it won't ruin you |
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How can you say he will haunt you? |
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You can go back to him any time you want to. |