| You can always find a warm place that will smile backwards at you
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| Filled with fine folks that can’t get their fingers out of their mouths
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| But one night, when sleep fell out of favor
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| I decided to shuffle around my furniture
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| And I couldn’t stop cleaning
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| Till the broom was sore and all of those sponges bleeding
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| I left a mess all over the floor
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| Then left through the window just to spare the door
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| Of a house that burned down before I was born
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| Chores carried out in a vacuum
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| Or shoving a stone up a hill
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| Ascribing the absurd a meaning
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| Bearing no likeness to what it will
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| It was then that I noticed my finger bleeding
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| I, for one, blame the thumb
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| You find the room’s exit
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| In that it’s just a handful of walls
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| Not one thing is everything
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| And not everything has a meaning
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| But you can lie
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| You can lie
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| You can lie
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| You can always lie
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| The sense of defeat was strong and in its season of feeding
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| And the broom was all numb and all the sponges now meaty
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| So I laid out on the floor |