| There is a certain type of genius
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| Who is proud to know so much
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| He skipped a thousand showers
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| Cause he doesn’t need to touch
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| He hides his bastard faces
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| Behind thick panes of glass
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| They’re all that seperates him
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| From the apish lower class
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| And the stench of love keeps sneaking up his nose
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| Through all the snot his sinuses can hold
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| Believing all the lies that he’s been told
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| Grows old, so old
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| A friday night alone with friends
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| He’s got but one or two
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| They’re geniuses like him, you see
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| Nothing like all of you
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| They banter and they languish
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| With all ostentatious plea
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| They’re all so trendy and which
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| They’re underground machines
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| And he won’t be there when jesus comes around
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| He’ll write a book on what his studies found
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| And deep inside he’ll learn to fear the sound
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| Of hope, of hope
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| He says why should i even try
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| I will let the oil soak in my face
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| Until the pimples shine
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| Like tiny mountains set in place
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| This lonely valley, mine
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| Between the hills of opulence
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| They grow with strength and time
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| Scarlet clusters spring from skin
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| To hide my missing spots
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| And he won’t be there when jesus comes around
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| He’ll write a book on what his studies found
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| And deep inside he’ll want to hear the sound
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| Of hope, of hope
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| When the world stabs you in the back
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| The worst thing you could do
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| Is become indifferent to
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| There is no 'they'
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| No idiot brigade
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| Only a thousand yous
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| Equally as bruised |