| Here in a song, patterns crash to a joyful death
|
| Curious lights and supports to which I must bend
|
| As the tendrils recoil, i am short of breath
|
| An indelible magic that they extend
|
| From the background
|
| To the foreground
|
| A game of satisfaction:
|
| A means of getting comfortable
|
| Or sensual reaction
|
| A new escape
|
| Here we are, but maybe not for long
|
| Can it wait?
|
| Here in a song where my conscience will never bow
|
| Cars speeding past, in the median of the road
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| Think fast, could it burn if i let it glow?
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| Not too deep, not a waste, if it’s functional
|
| In the face of planned obsolescence
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| A design without ergonomic limits
|
| Measures bound in whimsy
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| Gently sanded by nihilism
|
| Denouncing all but amusement
|
| All but enchantment
|
| A game of satisfaction:
|
| A means of getting comfortable
|
| Or sensual reaction
|
| A new escape
|
| Here we are, but maybe not for long
|
| Can it wait?
|
| From the background
|
| To the foreground
|
| From the playground
|
| To the graveyard
|
| A game of satisfaction:
|
| A means of getting comfortable
|
| Or sensual reaction
|
| A new escape
|
| Here we are, but maybe not for long
|
| Can it wait? |