| Such distance to the tips of the fingers,
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| the ganglion loom jerks inside;
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| the body grows steadily stranger
|
| but the spirit won’t be denied.
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| That sharp halogen flash jars the eyeball,
|
| the limbs pump in overdrive;
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| the body grows seemingly weaker
|
| but the s pirit won’t be denied.
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| Yeah, the ash-mark stands out on the forehead
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| as the vacuum sneaks up on the eyes;
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| the body becomes a constant traitor
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| but the spirit won’t be denied.
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| And they call that living a normal live,
|
| but normality’s not standardised.
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| Though the body gets ever more root-bound
|
| the spirit won’t be denied
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| Yes, the spirit survives. |