| It’s only the old boys who call through the trees
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| Sucking the mist up, I guess it was real
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| And they’ve got guns
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| Now I don’t hear them
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| Having shut the shades and secured locks on every door I can lock
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| Sure that if I second guess my work and stick my head out
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| It’ll blow off in one shot
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| And who wants to sleep by her who death becomes
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| Someone who sleep with her neck in reverse
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| It’s only me
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| You look at me, I turn around and wonder am I dreaming
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| Nidgeting a startled pulse out of a little calf with your knee
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| I foresee us undercover faking darker habits
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| Better call it off before me
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| Or be in this picture with me
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| This picture with me
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| Or be in this picture with me
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| This picture with me
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| Fell for a bone bag who sank into my stream
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| Now you better dry off so nobody sees
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| It’s only the old boys who reserve the rooms
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| And it’s only oxygal accepts the key
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| Solve for a way to stifle the mim
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| Gets so complacent when he swallows my fingers
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| Did all I could just to keep you around
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| So while you stand around
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| Be in this picture with me
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| This picture with me
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| Be in this picture with me
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| This picture with me
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| Fell for a bombshell who tripped in my street
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| Now we better part ways so nobody sees
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| Sucking the mist up, I guess it was real
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| Good thing I taught you the backstroke you hate |