| Even when I was younger
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| I could feel your slimy sculptor’s hands
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| Shaping every uneven feature of my body after your fantasies
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| Forever crafted to a silent
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| Excessive perfection
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| Fingers digging out all visible flaws
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| Yet you still aren’t satisfied with your work
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| I’ll never breathe or blink or look you in the eye
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| I’ll never show a single sign that I’m alive
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| The time will come to break the chisel that hacked away our trust
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| I’ll never speak or think or spit straight in your eye
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| I’ll never show a single sign I can defy
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| You need to understand it’s what you’ve done to all of us
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| As you approach, I’ll always freeze right where I’m standing
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| Heart beating faster under the cold
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| Hard clay that has become my skin
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| It’s buried so deep
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| You’d never know it was there
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| But you’re seeking something
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| I can see it when you examine my every feature
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| For something more than what you’ve designed
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| Weighed down by my own heavy splendor
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| I’m just a statue to pose at your parties
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| Surrounded by a stiff
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| Leering mass groping for a feel of the new old trend
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| But what more can I give you besides my rigid presence |