| When you write about the boys
|
| Under friendly fire, dress 'em up in suits
|
| And seek her to kill, freedom of the will
|
| Ours and, yes, yours, yesterday, today
|
| Onward marching on
|
| Chameleon, don’t paint your skin to the color of confection
|
| And turn away from every ghost you’ve been
|
| And sure enough, I saw your head at the tent sale and fire auction
|
| For a taste and a chaser, you’re a solid gold debaser
|
| Can you ever be a boy again, or have you stopped?
|
| Trade lost hours for a dare, burn the water, cook the air?
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| And twenty-one is the legal age to kill yourself slowly
|
| But eighteen is the legal age to die
|
| Would I cast my vote into the inside shit?
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| I’m often wont to crawl, that’s all
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| Don’t leave me now to drag my chains to a rhythm never changing
|
| Lost from found and beaten down
|
| When you write about the boys
|
| Under friendly fire, dress 'em up in suits
|
| And seek her to kill, freedom of the will
|
| Ours and, yes, yours, yesterday, today
|
| Onward marching on |