| Don’t try to resist, you’re coming with us.
|
| provisions are made, accommodations are met.
|
| your words are recoded in the bleak genetics of the mob.
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| praise apocrypha-omitted offense,
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| to relieve us of guilt but not of our sin
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| we’ve sacrificed discourse at the feet of your clever turn-of-phrase.
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| now you owe it to us, we demand to be taken aback,
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| to be showed the revival of hope, for which your words are responsible.
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| Oh, it’s the end of the line,
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| I’m cornered by a precedent; |
| the sneering public eye
|
| My job here is done.
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| My job here is done (you're fucking welcome).
|
| retract the accolade, the candid acclaim
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| inspiration is cutting its loss
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| regurgitate headlines or a theory on modern art
|
| You’ve been fooled again, the red herring’s a joke.
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| I’ve tried so hard to tell you that I tapped the well dry,
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| but there’s no word
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| stay wistful and young
|
| the affected are banking on oblivion in the drone of embittered hope,
|
| and we’re sold by the way they wrote it.
|
| Oh, it’s the end of the line,
|
| I’m cornered by a precedent; |
| the sneering public eye
|
| My job here is done.
|
| My job here is done
|
| it is better to destroy than to create what is meaningless,
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| so the picture will not be finished. |