| From the height of the highway on-ramp we saw
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| Two dogs a-dead in a field
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| Glowing on the Oakland Coliseum green seats wasteland
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| Dogs, dogs we thought were dead
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| They rose up, rose up when whistled at
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| Their rib cages inflating
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| Like men on the beach being photographed
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| A guard dog, guard dog for what? |
| for what?
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| Against overzealous penniless athletic fanatics
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| Getting into games through a hole in the fence
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| For the owner of the blue tarp tent
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| Pitched by a creek beneath an on-ramp
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| In the privacy, of the last three
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| Skin and bony trees, devoid of leaves
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| And us undeceased, and with our new CDs
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| Zipping on dead east, Oakland
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| It’s hard to stand the sight of two dogs dead
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| Under a sky so blue
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| You have to stop the blood to your head
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| To fit the breath in front of you
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| We secretly long to be some part of a car crash
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| Long to see your arms stripped to the tendons
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| The nudity of swelling exposed vein
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| Webbing the back of your hand
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| To be a red tendoned dog
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| To be red tendoned dogs
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| Blood breathing by the side of the highway
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| I long to be dead
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| Center of a curious crowd
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| To be touched
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| Sticky like nearly dried paint
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| Their soft silent stare, nursing your face
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| Anticipating the slightest pinch I flinch of pain
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| Everyone blank in accident awe
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| As the car crash fiberglass dust
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| Straight up settles on your raw muscle tissue
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| To be a red tendoned dog
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| To be red tendoned dogs
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| To be red tendoned dogs
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| To be red tendoned dogs
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| To be dead center of a curious crowd
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| Taking a close look at, at what’s around us there, there is some sort of a
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| harmony
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| It is the harmony of… overwhelming and collective murder |