| Well I know he’s alive and tricking me into all sorts of things
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| Bless his soul, bless his mind
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| He is cold, He is blind
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| And I know he’s wearing out after all these years
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| And I’ll find him dead some morning in my bedroom
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| He’ll have painted all my windows black
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| Soon I won’t have a single dose of tact at all
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| And I just came back from coffee and I didn’t bring my mind
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| What’s the use, it’s gone dry
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| No excuse, no goodbye
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| And I’ve locked eyes with a tombstone he doesn’t sleep he engineers thoughts
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| I’ll be dead one morning in my bedroom
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| I’ll have covered all my walls with crayon
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| Obituary reads, «Who's to blame for this disastrous plan?»
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| Imagine what you could make if your muse hadn’t killed herself
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| And after all these mistakes my life’s no better than hell
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| Maybe delaying the wake wasn’t best but I’m starting to tell
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| No matter what road you take there are spots with bone-dry wells
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| I was talking to a man one day and he couldn’t tell a lie
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| Time has flown, we will die
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| We’re alone, it’s alright
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| And in time we’ll be forgotten every single mortal soul
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| But you’ll be alive one morning in your bedroom
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| The sun will crack your windows, shake your walls
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| And you will wake up; |
| realize the walk was worth a thousand falls |