| There are no crowds out on the streets
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| No neon lights, no beautiful people
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| Just vacant windows staring down
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| At the heaps of ash and charred rags
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| And the avenues yawn between
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| Ruins that spike like polygraphs
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| At the half remembered husks
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| Int he cordwood-bundled clouds
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| Why won’t you fucking listen to me?
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| I’m so close to finding the right words
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| Look past the sores and the slurring tongue
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| And take my reality into your heart
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| You think I’m pathetic
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| But the truth is mine, not yours
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| Because when they cut me open
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| I saw the future coiled up inside |