| Open up till midnight
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| The butcher waits for someone’s desperation
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| That goes beyond control
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| Speaking is an invitation
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| Under fluorescent lights
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| You can’t wash out his desire
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| Where bodies are indecent
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| And they are not in decline
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| From behind the counter he thought
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| You whispered, you want more
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| Cut out the brights of the oncoming cars on the highway
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| Lightness is forced when you cut out the lines in the paper
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| Cut the split seconds
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| The ones over filled
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| When you thought you were caught with unknowable thrills
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| Instead you get absence
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| Soft haze in the face
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| The lines in your head, have to all be replaced
|
| Cleave the dry stone to a promise
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| That an answer soon will follow
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| Grave attention is still focused
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| On the flashlight and the cold fortune
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| Down the streets on prospects
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| The butcher walks home
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| Orange in the streetlights
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| Even knows it in the dark
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| Proves it with his eyes closed
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| He puts his red coat, downstairs
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| Goes up into his bedroom
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| Undresses and folds his arms
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| As if it could impress you
|
| From under the covers he thought
|
| You whispered, you want more |