| Straighten up my shoulders for my mother and mirrors
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| The overcompensation of a posture I’m dying to know
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| Feeling like a kid selling ten dollar chocolates
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| Reciting all my rehearsed lines to your closing door
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| Thought a change of scenery would make me feel better
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| Moved four hundred miles away, I’m still staring at the floor
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| And feeling useless as a mime in a counseling session
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| Here’s a million mute expressions, here’s the one where I choke on my words
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| Then in comes the church with the answers
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| Ah Ah bless me with those tired acronyms
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| They look good on the overhead slide
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| They’re saving lives
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| Works every time
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| Coughing courtesy up in a month of indifference
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| And lapping up the lie with an apologetic tongue
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| I’m polishing my eyelids with a hand on your shoulder
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| Scripted adornment always kills concern
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| Sick of coming home with the TV mumbling
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| There used to be a time when you spoke to me with words
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| I’m swearing up and down saying it’s a commitment
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| And toasting new beginnings saying sorry I thought it would work
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| All my speech is riddled with annulment
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| I’m sorry, I’m just doing what I think I should
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| I’m gathering my things and I’m leaving for good in November
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| I don’t know when I’ll talk to you
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| I guess when both our eyes have finally died
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| I still want to try |