| Drop the word I’m
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| Meant to use to
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| Coax the pretty waiter from his restaurant
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| Though he’s bad news
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| And a cartoon
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| Of every trope the trophy world’s designed to want
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| They say I am a spoiled thing
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| I keep my scar out on my head
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| And always come when I am told to go
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| I leave my neighbors scary notes
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| Which I don’t sign while they’re at work
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| And I don’t want to listen when he tries to talk
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| I stare at his flapping jaw
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| I wanna want him so bad
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| But I don’t recognize the charms that he has
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| 'Cause my heart looks in on itself
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| And he better be loved by somebody else
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| Who cares about his face
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| Like a robot
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| Who inflicts one shot
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| Then starts to wheel away despite his protocol
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| I got a hook in
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| The conversation
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| Which I played for meaty bait, though it was watered down
|
| They say I am a spoiled mess
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| I never fold up what should fold
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| And shine much better in my house alone
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| The charts predict a brother kid
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| But doctors say I need a sis
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| That I can pawn off to my spiral shell
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| And tie to my cord as well
|
| I wanna want her so bad
|
| But I don’t recognize the charms that she has
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| 'Cause my heart looks in on itself and any friend I make’s a stagehand at best
|
| To help along the play
|
| Fights first and facts last
|
| These lads have the asses for TV
|
| But who’s taking my picture
|
| They better be taking it only of me
|
| I wanna want him so bad
|
| But I don’t recognize the charms that he has
|
| I hear he’s pretty and swell, but I don’t get aroused
|
| I wanna want that so bad
|
| But I don’t recognize the charms that I have
|
| 'Cause my heart looks in on itself
|
| That’s why the beacon’s burnt |