| Jimmy Rose owns a tattoo parlor
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| Three times a day
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| Cooks a spoon of powder
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| I wash the dishes piled in his tub
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| If I wait too long he may never stand up
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| Up
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| He lies awake on an empty canvas
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| And tilts his brush
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| Watching brilliance drip in circles on the floor
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| And I lay his shirt on the bed
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| I fall inside picture frames
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| Breathing in his oil paints
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| He doesn’t see me
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| He wanders in
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| His mouth looks thin
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| Like a child, he stands there shaking
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| I can feel his anger choke me
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| Jimmy Rose works from twelve to five
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| To pay off the doctor that he prescribes
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| There’s kerosene in the wishing well
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| And I throw a penny still holding on to his hand
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| And I watch him drift, close his eyes
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| I fall inside picture frames
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| Breathing in his oil paints
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| He doesn’t see me
|
| He wanders in
|
| His mouth looks thin
|
| Like a child, he stands there shaking
|
| I can feel his anger choke me
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| Under the gun
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| Under my clothes
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| He’s feeding me
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| I’ll never know
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| I’ll never know
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| I’ll never know
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| He wanders in
|
| His mouth looks thin
|
| Like a child, he stands there shaking
|
| I can feel his anger choke me |