| we’ve drained full confession booths
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| polluted drinking wells with our repentances and then stood
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| grinning with our arms around shoulder of a rotting child.
|
| hold that pose. |
| provisional, arrogant little pigs who devour their siblings
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| shoot that dog if you can’t afford to feed.
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| famine fathered a moth.
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| famine fathered a moth that begot our fathers.
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| keep your voices down I’m sneaking out.
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| hey! |
| what’s the big idea? |
| keep your fucking hands off the insight
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| that rat has got it’s mother’s eyes. |
| breeding ad nauseam, they are pouring
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| themselves into the sea.
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| stop. |
| thief.
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| leave your drunken accident at the prom. |
| it’ll grow to mend your broken heart.
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| don’t sign the dotted line (every house is a little bit of Hollywood).
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| the world is too incredible to bring such ugliness into it
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| the artist is sneaking down the hall to impregnate the last of its kin.
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| indiscernible mute in a swarm of derivatives.
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| and I deny any part. |
| I deny any part. |
| a deadbeat godfather.
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| bite your tongue. |
| who taught you those words?
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| blaspheme! |
| when you are under my roof don’t ever say «rock and roll». |