| Crops falling from the earth to the ceiling
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| These small arms and white belly
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| And enormous undercarriage
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| The wax crayon illuminati
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| Our minds locked in dark sewer
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| Each finding less than before
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| Each counting the warm conclusions
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| Of the six buttons of sex appeal
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| Knowing full well that ice breaks when smoke rises
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| Sucked into a whole
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| The ever floating karma of fried blind dog of the street
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| Our purpose for the one and only
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| Green form eats small headed breaded shrimp
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| Allowing several coats of makeshift lolly
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| On a lolly covered felt
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| Shook with fear from lightning
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| Falling several times in the wrong place
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| Soaking up blindly the wings of our depression
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| Floating up shiny columns of grey green primrose algae
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| The piston awakes to a small tiny fire within himself
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| Forcing the unwanted part of his mind into tiny fractions
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| Each plied with coconut scissors
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| All content, yet somehow familiar to Mothers everywhere
|
| It’s been days now since my childhood dreams were fulfilled
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| With crystal canyons and opera myths —
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| Its thousand legs dribbling oil like may rain
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| Over all-coloured mortar from way back when
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| This gorgeous thigh is resting under his elbow
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| Reminds me of clotted cream
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| All bloody from strawberry tobbacco juice
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| Hard halo of polystyrene pillow talk
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| Mothers' milk cooking in the breat of paisley blue silk
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| Like a mind in labour
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| Bursting the waters of afterlife
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| Drenched in the warm hot river
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| Containing everything and nothing |