| So it seems
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| We’ve arrived in a place in time where the words you write
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| Don’t mean a Goddamn thing
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| It’s embarrassing is all
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| When the most pedestrian of things to say are held in high regard
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| A car crash is not an art
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| Someday you’ll see
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| These arts-and-crafts-type politicians
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| With their barrel up to the temple parading this
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| Hindsight’s one motherfucker
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| How could you pour your heart and soul into this mess?
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| If they start throwing horns I’m cutting off their fingers
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| I’m seeing stars and picking bullshit out of dialogue
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| I’m poking holes in stories that inflate what people really are
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| Stop strangling me
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| Because your world will burn, you’ll see
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| Flip the pages til your fucking fingers bleed
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| I suggest the new Bohemia can burn in hell
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| And all those clinging to it
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| Next up are the starched collars
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| And watch those fucking flames spread
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| Not predicated, I am medicated to see this through
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| And right through you
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| Your predictable vocabulary and your point of view
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| Will never meet my better side
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| I’ll never welcome you
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| If they’ll hold on at all |