| This is a crisis
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| With ticking time, calendars and cannonballs
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| So I question what this life is
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| teenage dreams of fame, the motorway or swimming lanes
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| There’s a problem to my crisis
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| it lasted 22 years, 7 months, and 7 days
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| Still I wonder where my mind is
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| with all that ticking time, calendars and cannonballs
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| I’m ten times sore
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| Hoping it’s a star, no satellite that blinds me
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| I’m very bored
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| Fighting myself much harder than I fight them
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| It’s in my TV screen, in my self-esteem,
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| my forgotten dream, in the things I’ve seen
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| In the things I don’t see anymore,
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| in the death I’m trying to ignore
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| In the tuned up cars, in the teenage whores,
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| in the words I say without a cause
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| In the credit cards, in the desperate hearts,
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| in the hollow words, in the pop-star
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| Get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out of here,
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| Get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out of here
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| Who can?
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| So analyze this analysis
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| When the rockets come in everyday form
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| and I’m still not gone
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| It seems I’not much of a good time
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| With my worried mind (be happy) and my cannonballs
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| I’m ten times sore
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| Hoping it’s a star, no satellite that blinds me
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| I’m very bored
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| fighting myself much hard than I fight them
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| It’s bitter to consider
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| that it’s myself and not the world that kills me
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| It’s bitter to consider
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| that it’s myself and not the world that kills me |