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Behind shaky worship heaves a bitter moon |
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Motherwit and street smarts bloom |
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Things fall apart the center cannot hold |
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Women on rockets and the men all follow |
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There might not a file but they're keeping tabs on you oil on water and a turd in the |
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Louvre Turncoats smile and then they grieve |
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They dig your grave shallow so you can breathe |
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Into Thin |
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Air The yellow sun will someday smolder red |
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Cords and cables, steel and concrete lie useless and dead |
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No worms and blood, bones and hair |
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A pasteless shell powders into thin air |
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Into Thin |
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Air |