| There are stings strung from a hand
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| They extend to every point across this land
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| And the ants keep moving fast
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| They just blink and nod while miracles slip past
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| There’s a face, unearthly clean
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| That stares up at me from every magazine
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| Computer screens and concrete lines
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| I think I might let my subscription slide
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| There’s this song stuck in my brain
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| With the unrelenting pulse of the inane
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| And the words go tra-la-la
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| Tra-la-la-la tra-la-la-la la-da-da
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| There’s a tick, and there’s a tock
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| They pursue like Hare Krishnas while I walk
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| Storefront signs broadcast the time
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| I think I might let my subscription slide
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| There are words hung in the sky
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| That the crazy children hum while they walk by
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| Human souls on sale for dimes
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| In a game of chutes and ladders run by mimes
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| There’s this voice, it won’t shut up
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| Says I should spill my juice and overflow the cup
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| You’ve got rules, and I’ve got mine
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| I think I might let my subscription slide
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| There are rules, and we all subscribe
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| I think I’m gonna let my subscription slide |