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It was me, |
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that trimmed my teeth |
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on a bottle of red. |
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And then I feel the raspberry seed. |
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How can this be |
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that I'd fear the ones who would hold me? |
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And inside fires, under those who would never chase me. |
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I will recognize |
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one of these late nights, |
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all I've left behind. |
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It was me, |
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bit the hand that feeds, |
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and slipped away, |
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without thought of the bleed. |
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How can this be |
|
that I'd fear the ones who would hold me? |
|
And inside fires, under those who would never chase me. |
|
I will recognize |
|
one of these late nights, |
|
all I've left behind. |