| Yeah, I feel so fly today
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| Emerge from my very narrow heel-toe hideaway
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| My bad, like what people that steal old lighters say
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| I told the emperor to get real clothes right away
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| I’m focused enough to knit a whole sleeper quilt
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| And train tunnels moving through people like a Peterbilt
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| I found where all of my confident voices are
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| I’m feeling free 20 pounds on my oyster card
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| G’on 'head with my Dwayne Wayne looking ass
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| I want a stupid mic stand carved from a wooden staff
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| I’m tryna relive days that I couldn’t grab
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| I looked up what Lena Dunham said and I shouldn’t have
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| I don’t know how I ever faced the odds
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| As a child I played grab-ass and shot paper wads
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| I matriculated up by the grace of Bob
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| Used to licks macrame, cricket, and decoupage
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| I’m tryna find true moments
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| Rick Martel’s cologne can blind you Hogan
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| The American part of my mind’s too swollen
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| If I was a font I would hate Times New Roman
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| I travel light like a choir can’t
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| A modern satellite’s equipped to spy on a fireant
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| Which is cool cause them fuckers is dangerous
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| I’m tryna learn to face -- FUCK!
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| Yeah, I feel so uppity
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| Peter Piper picked the purple stuff before the Sunny D
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| Summer pants, all of my receptors up and under siege
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| Itchy middle fingers triple lindy out of the ugly tree
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| Snap, Crack, show him to the closest blooming Onion
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| Reclusive Koopas moving out the dungeon into gundam
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| Money run along, sleeves up Tero on his upper arm
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| Sneak up on a thousand crows peppering the front lawn
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| Bite a bat’s head off before doors
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| I’ll forward you the recipe bork bork
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| Quarter and draw everything orbit a failing biosphere
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| Pioneer of pestilence my stylus is a science fair
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| The future primitive is skitching off the pace car
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| Rebel yell except for when he whistle by the graveyard
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| If I ain’t home wiping spittle off the space bar
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| I’m tryna be the first jarred brains on a face card |