| Your tactile eyes running over glossy paper
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| Printed on with tactile lies of glaze and gauze
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| They say forget yourself, adorn with this disguise
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| This womanhood of smooth and tampered whores
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| Let me warn you of their cold sensitivity
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| They’ll have you gathered in a trap of glass
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| Is your reflection all the you will recognise?
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| That cruel lie will stare you in the face
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| Wrapped up in a haze and flow of bridal gown
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| They tell your lover he must hold a gun
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| You’re the pornographic reassurance he’s a man
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| They deal with flesh, incarcerate with rags
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| Red lips, shimmer-silk and body-bags
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| Hairless legs against the blistered napalm burn
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| I want to rape the substance of your downy hair
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| In that mist a gutted child fights for air
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| Against the fragile, mashed and sweaty wound
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| Your facile beauty has an outrageous sound
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| Like a glamour billboard on a battlefield
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| At least the blood red poppy was of natures will
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| That flower perfecting by the barbed wire fence
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| Must be insulted by your scented poor pretence
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| Just as I, who finds it hard to touch you now
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| You traumatise my love with needle doubts
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| I want so gently to remove your mask
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| It’s hard enough to find water here
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| In this barrenness of dishonesty and fear
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| Without you accepting poison in a pretty pill
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| Your bondages of silk robes and lace
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| Are the bandages on a bullet punctured corpse
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| The layers of precious imitation worn
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| Are the layers of history that suffocates the unborn |