| I’m the world weekly news Batchild
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| Beelining ash pile to ash pile to ash pile
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| For every ghost climbing out the flat file
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| Every gaffe, every lone spaz in the snack aisle
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| Cracked out, don’t touch that dial ever
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| These trap doors forecast quagmire weather
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| But it’s worth it, from cobras out to kiss him on the cheek
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| To snatching victory from out the jaws of imminent defeat
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| The phone ping from a pillow fort in a corn maze
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| I don’t have a horse in your war games
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| I don’t even really like horses
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| I like wild orchids and neighbors with wide orbits
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| Electric fence and pets that tend to pretty much ignore us
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| We headbutt in the mornings then report to separate corners
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| Criminy, ya killin' me Smalls, the fist balls up
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| I pull my hood down, I got some walls up
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| Walls up
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| I keep my coat on I got some walls up
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| Chips down, walls up
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| I cut the lights off
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| Every day I wake up in a gallon of sweat
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| Puke blood, hit the shower, turn to Malibu Ken
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| While you were asking all your lackeys, «Are we jackals or men?»
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| I’ve been the sorcery authorities should catch if they can
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| Mostly a master of none, come try the coffee, it’s burnt
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| He type a chapter, it sucks, top of the moth-eaten world
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| Pick a one-horse town, four horsemen got his number
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| I feed each one the others camouflaged in Fluffernutters
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| The million-dollar free jazz-speak in a secret garden
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| Some people think it’s freakish, but they can’t deny the harvest
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| It’s funny when they’re later made
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| To celebrate the shit they said was garbage
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| It only show the city who the mark is
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| Are we Donatello’s David or delicate Frozen Charlottes?
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| Even Davids know, in art, there often will be no catharsis
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| The voices in my head still talk tough
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| I go to bed stoned, I got some walls up
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| Walls up
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| I keep my coat on I got some walls up
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| Chips down, walls up
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| I cut the lights off
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| In a lavish rabbit hole with no rabbits
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| Young, dumb dust-bunnies jump into traffic
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| Casually gussied up and done feeling unsung and savage
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| Punk, we have come for your cabbage
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| I’m bad news, travel like a rat through your cabinet
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| Spaz, twenty paw-pads full of scabs
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| Off in a false ad, fall plaid, all dander
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| Blast off, black jackdaws on his antlers
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| Zero faithers, wearily fear his neighbors
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| Someday we’ll find a way to make these billionaires obey us
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| Someday we’ll earn a subdivision gaudier than reprobates
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| Who sit around depressed and guess the order of the Tetris rain
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| With biblical misreckoning, son of surly Satan torn asunder
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| Private number, public urination
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| We socialize with pundits who encompass all the wrong stuff
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| I count the bread quick, I got some walls up
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| Walls up
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| I keep my coat on I got some walls up
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| Chips down, walls up
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| I cut the lights off |