| She flies to Paris, France, I come down in her childhood bed
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| And write the words I'll one day wish that I had never said
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| Now all that I became must die before the forum thread
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| The cursed vultures feed and spread the seeded daily bread
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| And I guess I found out
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| What it's like
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| Oh, I am very young
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| But I am working
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| Working on the glow-up
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| I am the richest girl in every room
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| Mainline to the UE BOOM
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| They ask me
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| "Why don't you sing with an English accent?"
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| Well, I guess it's too late to change it now
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| In the rural American town fairground
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| I go 'round and I go 'round
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| It's a great wide gulf between intentions and what ground met me
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| I check my phone and make the sound
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| Like "Theme From Failure" performed, but for just you
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| Like the new road built out of Black Country ground
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| I have learned so little from all I lost in 2018
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| I think she's still waiting there for us, somewhere
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| Underneath what we built to keep the waters clean
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| It's a one-size-fits-all, hardcore, cyber-fetish, early-noughties zine
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| She sells Matcha shots to pay for printing costs and a PR team
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| She's recently enlightened and for some reason, that fazes me
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| It won't give up, too soft to touch and how hard could it really be? |