| he wakes himself up with a monkey wrench, straightens out his spine,
|
| he does it all the time, everytime.
|
| no matter how hard he may scrub, he’s just rubbing it in.
|
| he washes his hair with a bar of soap, but it doesnt get it clean.
|
| its like a smack in the face, or a shot in the arm,
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| he doesnt appear but he doesnt do any harm.
|
| he’d rather just sustain in his comfortable routine,
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| his comfortable routine and a mad magazine
|
| chorus:
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| he’s got a ball point pen tattoo on the skin streched across his bones.
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| theres nothing worse than being in a crowded room,
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| and feeling all alone
|
| he’s got a ball point pen tattoo on the skin streched across his bones.
|
| theres nothing worse than being in a crowded room,
|
| and feeling all alone
|
| sits on the curb from dusk till dawn, he’s peeling off his core,
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| ripped up and torn
|
| its better living through chemistry, its an escape,
|
| its a vulnerability, and then the twilight comes |