| Shut out, pimpled and angry.
|
| I quietly tied all my guts into knots.
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| Gave up on trying to make them,
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| I figured it’d take them too long to look up and besides…
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| It was undeniably clear to me i don’t know why
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| When every other part of life seemed locked behind shutters
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| I knew what worthless dregs we’ve always been.
|
| Lucked out and found my favorite records
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| Lying in wait at the birmingham mall.
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| The songs that i heard,
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| The occasional book
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| Were the only fun i ever took.
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| And i got on with making myself.
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| The trick is just making yourself.
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| But when they’re parking their cars on your chest
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| You’ve still got a view of the summer sky
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| To make it hurt twice when your restless body
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| Caves to its whims
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| And suddenly struggles to take flight…
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| Three thousand miles north east
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| I left all my friends at the morning bus stop shaking their heads.
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| «what kind of life you dream of? |
| you’re allergic to love.»
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| Yes i know but i must say in my own defense
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| It’s been undeniably dear to me, i don’t know why
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| When every other part of life seemed locked behind shutters
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| I knew the worthless dregs we are,
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| The selfless, loving saints we are,
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| The melting, sliding dice we’ve always been. |