| Our father who art in a penthouse
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| Sits in his 37th floor suite
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| And swivels to gaze down
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| At the city he made me in
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| He allows me to stand and
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| Sollicit graffiti until
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| He needs the land i stand on
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| I in my darkened threshold
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| Am pawing through my pockets
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| The receipts, the bus schedules
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| Urgent napkin poems
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| And matchbook phone numbers
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| All of which laundering has rendered
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| Pulpy and strange
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| Loose change and a key
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| Ask me
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| Go ahead, ask me if i care
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| I got the answer here
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| I wrote it down somewhere
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| I just gotta find it
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| I just gotta find it
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| Somebody and their spraypaint got too close
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| Somebody came on too heavy
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| Now look at me made ugly
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| By the drooling letters
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| I was better off alone
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| Ain’t that the way it is
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| They don’t know the first thing
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| But you don’t know that
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| Until they take the first swing
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| My fingers are red and swollen from the cold
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| I’m getting bold in my old age
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| So go ahead, try the door
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| It doesn’t matter anymore
|
| I know the weakhearted are strongwilled
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| And we are being kept alive
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| Until we’re killed
|
| He’s up there the ice
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| Is clinking in his glass
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| I don’t ask
|
| I just empty my pockets and wait
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| It’s not fate
|
| It’s just circumstance
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| I don’t fool myself with romance
|
| I just live
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| Phone number to phone number
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| Dusting them against my thighs
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| In the warmth of my pockets
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| Which whisper history incessantly
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| Asking me
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| Where were you
|
| I lower my eyes
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| Wishing i could cry more
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| And care less
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| Yes it’s true
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| I was trying to love someone again
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| I was caught caring
|
| Bearing weight
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| But i love this city, this state
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| This country is too large
|
| And whoever’s in charge up there
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| Had better take the elevator down
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| And put more than change in our cup
|
| Or else we
|
| Are coming
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| Up |