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I'm smarter than a chair, until it needs |
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red paint |
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Then I'm amazed in a forest of stares |
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Crying oil, and picking horsetail feathers |
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From my eyes |
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A grin of shadows press my face |
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I am a forger or a fake |
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Who dabs and bursts each blood-filled egg |
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And whips his raw steak of a brush into an X |
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I wanna quit with all my skin |
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But I can't find a place to sit with all this red |
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On my hands |
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Or even trace these slapdash tears back to |
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the start |
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I coat it twice, and thrice |
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I rub it on with tan lotion |
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And like a child, I let it stream |
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Watching it ebb, full of emotion |
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My neighbour stares, I'm red as Mars |
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(He's smarter than a can of paint) |
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'It looks real nice, he finally says |
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'And where's your lovely wife today?' |
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She's in the house baking a cake. |