| This is a ploy of cold, crass, sheep. |
| To only milk the pieces of truth that
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| suit their means
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| And I was just wandering what you thought it’d bring
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| So hey, there’s a poison in your skin, I see it quietly seeping out of it Hey there’s a poison in your skin. |
| I see it coming, saw it coming out.
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| And I am the fortunate one
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| This, an attempt at feeding primal needs, has woken all the demons that reside
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| inside of me And you still say that I am the fortunate one
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| Well I could wash my hands to pretend they’re clean, or I could purge my lips
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| of spineless speech, but the consequence of knowledge is an eager tongue
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| Don’t you leave, I wasn’t finished. |
| This isn’t over.
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| I will be heard
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| Every last word will have its turn
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| Mine may be the words unwisely sewn, to cultivate the path that I have chose
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| Mine may be the words you’ll never know but lay me in the dirt and I will grow
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| Are you listening? |
| Cause my breath grows null
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| Tired quips begin to wither
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| Who can reason with time?
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| Lay me in the dirt and I will grow |