| Can’t motherfuck a motherfucker
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| From the underfunded Klutz who never undercut the butcher
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| The pick-a-booger-at-your-wake is bumping «I'm your pusher»
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| Also at your wake, Juvenile Intruders at the gate
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| Brooding over waking history that bubbles from the blinking 12s of VCRs and
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| Microwaves
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| Like time machines for shrinking elders, rifling through their recipe
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| Carrots, onions, celery, what unique amalgam of piss and repugnant energy
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| Spun him out of the 70s, to b-line for dessert?
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| Fire-eater trying to keep it on the green side of the dirt
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| This is tea-time with the worst, geriatrics on the decline of berserk
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| Back in my day we were three times more alert
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| Now I go through my old clothing trying to find nostalgic threads to sell
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| Walk away feeling like I should have never dressed myself
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| Sincerely I was never on the cutting edge, my hand was on the hilt
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| You’re free to build with the other end
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| Shriek into the vacuum if in spite of your accomplishments
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| You wake up feeling empty like Houdini’s grave probably is
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| Volley with the quintessential digital ager, I’m offended by everything
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| My opinions come in a manger, oh boy
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| Depreciating since they drove me off the lot, still into ghost stories and pot
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| and the classic coconut bra
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| Procedural crime drama shows with holes in the plot, and reminding clones
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| there’s more to coping than a nose full of snot
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| Ah, old pros throw 'bows to the 808, you couldn’t throw a rope over a baby gate
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| Bishop to queen 4 in damn Daniels under ram skulls
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| Plan for cloudy with a chance of anvils
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| Fever dreams of padded cells and jagged pills in frozen pipes
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| Socialites from pageant hell with plastic smiles and robot eyes
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| I’m hoping you all grow into the sentience you assume
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| As your moment of self-reflection is a moment for me too
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| Look, with the steel chair, sure to serve the veal rare, brush up your evasion
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| and basic tactical field care
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| I was on that constant futile rage before the internet
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| I been ignored for longer than you’ve been interested
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| The posse promise you nobody feels threatened by a scarecrow covered in crows
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| who feel welcomed
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| That’s like hellions thinking hell is just ok but needs some polish
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| It helps to know intimidation’s all about the optics
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| Come duck a bounty, it’s a hoot, Suffolk County it’s a zoo, puppy chow and
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| bitches brew
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| It’s not exactly chicken soup, it’s heavy-lifters lifting, it’s ginseng on his
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| whistling
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| It’s we don’t find the flippancy convincing, 2 for flinching, older yeller
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| Never knew a no-kill shelter in his doggie days
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| Now I draw my neighbors over Kouign-amanns and coffee stains
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| A walled and whirling urchin, more observant than audacious
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| I document the great unwashed and curse in Lithuanian
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| For a gallery of grifters channeling Sid’s action figures grafted with his
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| little sister’s after markers glue and scissors
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| It’s trippy, the truth and fiction moving to a center
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| Maybe it’s weirder they’ve never been photographed together
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| Sometimes the stomach disappears from under a retreating lens
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| And patterns of a need to please abusive folk reveal themselves
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| I’m peeling back the layers, I’m sneaking past the lasers
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| I’m a lover, I’m a fighter, I’m a seed to blackened acres
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| The dogs I think are following me home are out to kill me
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| Your music makes a motherfucker wanna move to Elm Street
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| Rejection of the spirit by the body at your service, if you mess-up every
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| friendship come get swept up in the current
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| Here, wheels fall off of cars when they see him, seas part, green trees march
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| out of Eden
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| I’m known to eat the heart and keep the archery uneven, are you starting to be
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| part of the kinesis?
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| Got me on some other shit
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| Got me on some other shit
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| Got me on some other shit |