| Quit making faces at the one I love
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| These errant tightropes that you’re thinking of
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| Can’t be undone the instant that they’re set
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| Above this scorched and torrid hallowed ground or
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| So they say (in the city)
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| So they say (in the sea)
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| Set your watch (round the corner)
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| While they bleed
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| I heard a rumour that you lost your job
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| Was it just hearsay or of factual ground?
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| This tightrope’s set up, there’s no going back
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| To sepiata and the plastic surgeons with (?)
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| Pineapple cones bleaching your bones
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| Pineapple cones bleaching your bones
|
| Pineapple cones…
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| They came on the crest of a wave
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| The cusp of equinox today
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| This pillar of sleep orbited
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| By thousands of delicate thoughts
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| These satellites fleeced at the door
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| Comprised of the reason of years
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| As life flashes fitfully down
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| This spirit so fitfully drowns
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| A signal is sent from the core
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| To bring all the satellites home
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| Home, home…
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| A quart of the … still remains (?)
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| Tsunami that rip at the skin (?)
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| Anonymous wrenches of blame
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| A great tidal wave
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| Over the house on the hill
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| The snakes are all burdened with lead
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| Plumbum dementia for them
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| Just don’t forget |