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My brain makes drugs to keep me slow, |
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A hilarious joke for some dead pharaoh. |
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But now, not even the masons know |
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What drug will keep night from coming. |
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There are so many tools that are made for my hands. |
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But the tide smashes all my best-laid plans to sand. |
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And there's always someone to say it's easy for me, |
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But I revenge myself all over myself. |
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There's nothing you can say to me. |
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You never held it at the right angle, |
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You never held it at the right angle, |
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Catch a, catch a, catch a, catch a falling star, |
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But wash your hands of it |
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Catch a, catch a, catch a, catch a falling star |
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Because you can't hold it. |
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Did they poison my food? Is it cause I'm a girl? |
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If I puked up some sonnets, would you call me a miracle? |
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I'm gonna go where my urge leads no more. |
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Swallowed, waist-deep, in the gore of the forest |
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A boreal feast, let it finish me, please. |
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Cause I revenge myself all over myself. |
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There's nothing you can do to me. |
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You never held it at the right angle, |
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You never held it at the right angle, |
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Catch a, catch a, catch a, catch a falling star, |
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But wash your hands of it |
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Catch a, catch a, catch a, catch a falling star |
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Because you can't own it. |
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You never held it at the right angle, |
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You never held it at the right angle. |
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You never held it, |
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You never held it, |
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You never held it, oh... |
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You never held it, |
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You never held it, |
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You never held it, oh... |
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You never held it, |
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You never held it, |
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You never held it, oh... |