| Don't go yet and clap your hands for the street vendors
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| That they bring the bag up to the top of bones
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| Who have spent the night for me, unearthing dreams
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| And they make dressing if I fade and I give the day with the litany of my landfill
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| That does not fit under my hat
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| Don't fall asleep in my lullaby of brokenness
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| What is the song with which the sun wakes up
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| Crying like a little boy every time I dedicate him
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| This shadow that he gave me, where only the two of us fit
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| If the Grim Reaper peeks at me, I shrink my leg
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| But the smile always gives me away
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| Let me finish painting feathers on the rats
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| Let them take flight from your hair
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| Where we live since the soils any day kill us
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| If being heaven is what it's all about
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| Don't fall asleep in my lullaby of brokenness
|
| What is the song with which the sun wakes up
|
| Crying like a little boy every time I dedicate him
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| This shadow that he gave me, where only you and I fit
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| I dug my grave among your things, bored of having been the one who gave you the most love
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| Also the one who wears the most and cursed words on the way to the orchard
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| Without knowing if our sad and disgusting heart smelled like death
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| Fighting with my head no one wins me
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| He lacks sanity, I have plenty of vinegar
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| And a bad fuck, and a very well sharpened little mouth
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| who prefers triscar in the grass
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| Before being accountable to the air
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| If you stay with me here, you will know that my word
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| Wear crimson red
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| Give him a string to his bustle, it will come out of my bowels
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| What turns sawdust into gold
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| Or in more blood to write with |