| If memory serves us, then who owns the master
|
| How do we know who’s projecting this reel
|
| And is it like gruel or like quick drying plaster
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| Tell me how long til the paint starts to peel
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| Is it like Pyramus or Apollo or an archer we don’t know
|
| Though history repeats itself, and time’s a crooked bow
|
| Come on tell us something we don’t know
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| Now who’s the best boy and the casting director
|
| And the editor splicing your face from the scene
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| It’s all in the hands of a lazy projector
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| That forgetting, embellishing, lying machine
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| That forgetting, embellishing, lying machine
|
| They say all good things must come to an end
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| Everyday the night must fall
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| How it all came to this, I simply can’t recall
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| Too many cooks in the kitchen
|
| How the mighty must fall
|
| But I can’t see the sense in us breaking up at all
|
| I can’t see the sense in us breaking up at all
|
| I can’t see the sense in us breaking up at all
|
| Breaking up at all
|
| And it’s all in the hands of a lazy projector
|
| That forgetting, embellishing, lying machine |