| This is the soundtrack… to one specific girl’s life
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| The soundtrack to one specific… girl’s life
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| You take this specific song… and stick it right in your head automatica folder
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| By the time that she wake up and smear on her make up
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| She’s dressed to kill, no heart behind her A-cup
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| Silly girl from upstate, I could have loved her
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| No surprise ties was severed, the girl was a cutter
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| Used to hack her arm up for attention
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| I kinda related to the state of her depression
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| My head down walkin' through a do or die world
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| Of course I’d get hooked on a suicide girl
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| Told me God was gonna see her by Easter
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| Still I kept my doubts, she was such a scenester
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| You know the model type that never becomes a model
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| Counts her tips with bloody hands from opening bottles
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| She’s so shallow and hallow
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| So sick you’d think this girl was bein' buried tomorrow
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| In Key Largo without you too bent to feel this
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| Cause all we had in common was mental illness
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| Oh!
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| I got you where I want you
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| Far enough for me to seem not too
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| Insane but you’re sicker than me
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| So when I slip into psychosis you’re my secretary
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| Her boyfriend’s in a band playing her college
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| But like her model career: completely unaccomplished
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| Stage hand gets fucked over and over
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| By this clinically depressed suicidal Cage fan (man)
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| For the sake of the irony why lose it
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| You were the guy who put the girl up on my music
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| Scandalous, sick, seething opportunist
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| But you had to respect, her gangster was ruthless
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| Told me it was only me making her brain stir
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| I kept my doubts she was such a aimster
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| Little boys were lap dogs for smack runs
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| Then the angel clipped her wings and found a tat gun
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| My friend or fling is looking for amenities
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| And alternates her friends to keep switching her identities
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| Bump this on your little stereo at home pissed
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| Lookin' through your portfolio of phone pics
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| Oh!
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| I got you where I want you
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| Far enough for me to seem not too
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| Insane but you’re sicker than me
|
| So when I slip into psychosis you’re my secretary
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| Her talk is slick, her walk’s a vanilla sundae
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| Catwalk through dog shit in the yard like a runway
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| She bit my neck, would kiss me 'til my lips sore
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| Clothes smelled of Gucci with a little hint of thrift store
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| See if you can find her, queen of the diner
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| Had her arm in every pic 'til she figured out the timer
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| Used dudes in love, picked out tools precise
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| But couldn’t use those tools to fix her life
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| She loved drama so much she used it as a moniker
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| Dudes tryin' to bang her pretend to be photographers
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| But to her credit she ain’t listen to any pop
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| Hipster lover underground rappers and indie rock
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| She put the razor to her arm and dug so many gashes
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| I could have wrote this song in between the slashes
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| Funny how you never opened a vein to out you
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| But you vain enough to think this song is about you
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| No!
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| I got you where I want you
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| Far enough for me to seem not too
|
| Insane but you’re sicker than me
|
| So when I slip into psychosis you’re my secretary
|
| She’s a scenester
|
| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester
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| She’s a scenester |