| Baby’s ball is all blood red like flayed pigs
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| And silk soft little things
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| Fill a house hung from strings
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| And I fly out on my silver, scissoring wings
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| With the other sardines
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| Over cities of things mommies need
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| Light as gas, and half-assedly free
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| Like I was in nineteen ninety three
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| Over the ruins like we’re staggering apes
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| What we get is what we take
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| In a split open place where a man can get kinged
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| In a palace of panic and flames
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| Where nobody gets blamed
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| By the tired and broke down and beat
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| In sunken gardens where there was a street
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| West over water I rambled and paced
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| And the blood river raced
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| Like the sweat down my face
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| And the stadium roared and the warriors embraced
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| And the golden shore groaned beneath the weight of my tastes
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| And I blazed
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| In the last orange hours of the day
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| Until the dust hazed and hid us away
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| So little baby, be brave
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| I see your dad riding over the rise
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| His whole cavalcade
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| Watch them run on all sides
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| And the neon white branches and the carrion fly
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| On a congressman’s eye
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| I have wrapped up for you in some old autumn leaves
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| And left under a rock out on Rock- Rockaway Beach
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| Beneath the trees
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| I have laughed my best hiss to the whistling breeze
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| There’s a hole in my throat
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| You can note my last wheeze if you need
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| And then take hold of the rope
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| And down we scream |