| Dear God, the patient’s best intentions have sadly faltered
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| Despite his newly installed, varnished brain
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| And being force-fed gallons of viscous, demented liquor
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| He is determined to obtain the new drone spiders' trophy
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| He dreams of becoming a scorpion who never sweats
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| Quite frankly, I’m sickened to have this individual infiltrate my headspace
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| He talks of lascivious laughs haunting his every second
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| As the clock spits, clicks, and time speeds by
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| In the form of a neon snake
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| Massive delusions? |
| Very probably
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| I fear for my safety
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| He is as weak as his fellow man
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| I am now surrounded by hypocrites, liars, drunks
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| Clowns, fools, sycophants, and the desperate
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| I insist we barter with the moon to sell the patients cohesive lyrical maps
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| In exchange for a vision of the future
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| Stricken with grief, I have no choice but to turn to lethal toxins
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| Hardcore punk paste
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| Allstars takin' over
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| Stick 'em up, motherfucker!
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| We’re going to throw it down
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| Nothing seems that weird anymore |