| Running through my backbrain in the morning
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| I think that what I’m getting is a warning
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| Messages are scrambled but they’re urgent Something in the cortex 'bout
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| detergent
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| I think it’s coming clearer
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| I can see it in the mirror
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| Heading for a relapse
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| Clogging up the synapse
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| Or is it just Cassandra yawning?
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| Killers in the streets are wearing striped pants
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| They are interfering with my laryn
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| My brother and my sister joined the army
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| They promise that they do not mean to harm me Messages messages
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| Persecution Persecution
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| messages messages…
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| Now it’s growing dimmer
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| I can see the mirror shimmer
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| Sounds are getting stranger
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| Warning me of danger
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| Or can it be that I am merely tired?
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| There’s a roaring in my ears that will not die
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| And signals in the sky I can’t identify
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| My eyes are melting and my lips are moving
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| And the words that I am hearing are not soothing
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| Breathing’s getting harder
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| There’s nothing in the larder
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| The building’s falling over
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| Or the Sun is going nova
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| Or is it my old-fashioned paranoia?
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| I think that it’s important information
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| Giving me my future destination
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| Fragments of mysterious conversation
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| Lend the game a frightening complication
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| I know they’re trying to tell me What can they want to sell me?
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| The floor is undulating
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| My bones are soft and aching
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| Or have I temporarily lost my bearing?
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| Every little sound is charged with meaning
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| Percentage bandits riding out of Ealing
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| Stuttering, shouting, crying, and declaiming
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| Sentences are waxing, now they’re waning
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| I’m nearly out of letters
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| From my elders and my betters
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| The Killer’s moving faster
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| He tells me that he’s my master
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| Or was he just asking me «the time please?» |