| It’s the weight I’m trying
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| To get inside the frame
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| I’ve been painting a fat man
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| He’s big and fat and heavy
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| As a man can be
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| But he’s been floating away, floating away
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| He’s been floating away from me
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| In the mirror my withering skin
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| Is a thorny pleasure
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| I stand unflinching
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| And I mark each crease and sting
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| My brush my wooden flail
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| My ancient thresher
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| As unforgiving time flays everything
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| It’s the truth I’m trying
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| To get inside the frame
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| Now I’m painting myself naked
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| But I need a pair of boots
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| About as heavy as boots can be
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| Or I’d be floating away, floating away
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| I’d be floating away from me
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| And every thorn sends thistledown
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| Drifting all around
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| And floating away, floating away
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| Floating away from me |