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Based on a book based on his life |
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A song I was hired to write |
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I stole every line and plot device |
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From his journal that I read at night |
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The characters were all stiff robotic whores |
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But there was one intriguing role |
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The slick missionary with a penchant for stealing and |
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Hypnotising the |
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Girls with boys' names and boys with girls' frames |
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So I set to work with my blueprint |
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And the aim of a dead poet's pen |
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I filled my prescription and then |
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A cold war, bible like tyrant was calling my name |
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He told me needed someone to detail each moment |
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His history, the ink started flowing |
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He first took drugs in '84 |
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But he's never been the same as before |
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It's the fault of the suburbs, prog rock and his mum |
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She still calls him all the time |
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To see if he's failing 'cause nothing keeps it's shape when |
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Tempted each day |
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By European ways, speed freaks and strays |
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It's so hard to say |
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If nature has more than a sick sense of humour |
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A cold war bible black tyrant was taking my hand |
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He told me he needed someone to proof read each sentence |
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A dead language, the ink started flowing |
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He told me it felt like a whirlwind of heat |
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Just east of Juarez, a border town soiree |
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He knew it before he could breathe |
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The air was filled with the smell of baby's breath |
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Stale sex and baby's breath |
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It feels like he's failing, 'cause nothing keeps its shape |
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When tempted each day |
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By heartfelt inscriptions and sinking convictions |
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A cold war bible black tyrant was calling my name |
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He told me he needed someone to detail each moment |
|
His history, the ink started flowing |