| I fucking loved you, but never said a word to make it known
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| I fucking loathed you, but never said the words as hard to harm
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| I’m so tired of sourcing men to quote
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| My God doesn’t quiver, and nor should he do
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| From threats below the Tropic Of Cancer
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| And nor should he do
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| I was born a fucking idiot, but no one told me til I die o' it
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| My God doesn’t quiver from threats below the Tropic Of Cancer
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| Well I was born who I was, no doctored manuscript could say that I’m not
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| But I’ll take my own word for it and wear the sign, «Here be a cunt»
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| I sat beneath portraits and drew symbols of brotherhoods on my arm
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| I used only pencil, because nothing in my life can ever last
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| I watched my mother garden, and thought of all the times I made her cry
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| I watched my sister watch me, we both agreed kids like us never last
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| I crawl under the stairs, I crawl under the fern
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| Decaying leaves, a garden tool
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| She drags her fingers across the earth
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| I can hear my mother weep
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| In other soil in another world
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| She’s getting drunk and starting fights
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| With famous pricks who run the world
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| I can hear my sister weep
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| In another house in another room
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| These fingers move faster
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| These lungs grow louder
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| I can hear my body weep
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| «Spare the drama, now go to sleep»
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| My father looks upon his house
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| And into ferns and tells his son
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| «You've made your women weep
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| So leave the house or leave your life»
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| I dream, I dream of England
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| Oh foreign fern, the world in bloom
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| I dream, I dream of England
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| Oh rotting wood, my boat to sail
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| I never thought of what I did
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| I fucking love what’s wrong with me
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| No prayer or wine could twist my arm
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| To say I was wrong about my life
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| I’d never harm a living soul
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| If I was told they didn’t deserve it
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| Decaying leaves to hide my corpse
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| I don’t want his hands to fucking touch me
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| I hid in the local fern, but no one ever knew
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| I, made my God quiver, through social dissonance and planned dementia
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| I, made myself quiver, through social dissonance and planned dementia
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| I, made myself quiver, through social dissonance and forced dementia |