| They were made of, of a whitish, bluish light
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| And the arm looked like robes to me
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| And it was, like, flowing energy
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| So it was, it was really just this idea of a form
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| More so than an actual solid form
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| My child, myself, seems to reign
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| My mother, myself, runs fingertips up her forehead
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| Through our hair
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| Palm tops on socket caves
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| Instead of prayer
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| Or direct feed
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| Haven and squeeze
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| I huff, I puff, and blow my house down
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| (I huff, I puff, and blow my house down)
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| I’m tired of being tired of not being awake
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| This life is exile from home
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| You can’t go home until you’r ready
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| You gotta pass your exams |