| Day day day day…
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| Day day day day…
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| The next day
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| The exact same nurse is standing with her back to me at every last
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| Every last passing bus stop (x4)
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| Only this time, what looks like a small stack of bills with bat wings
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| Hovering just beside her
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| They’re bound together by a narrow wishbone,
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| beneath it rests a large
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| indifferent fruit waxen looking still
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| Atop a three quarter length corinthian column
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| To the left, is a rather fit «right» woman’s left leg,
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| buried thigh deep in the hallowed and wood-chip topped bus stop grounds
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| The planted lady’s leg looking clean shaven and hot
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| sweat beading up about its calf in the black avenue amplified sun
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| an eye blue high heel jut in full bloom on its visible end
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| And so you get off
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| to find two suits arguing silent
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| before a double-parked and obviously unmarked cop car
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| the blown-up head flesh of two big business men, a-hover above them
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| a good foot or two of twine dangling from their tied off throats,
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| running down into their hollowed dress shirt collar mouths
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| You over hear them mutter something serious about
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| the second hand emotion
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| and then comes something like semi-poetic directions
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| a ways down commerce. |
| then turn, dead straight into ashe
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| And so you walk,
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| predicting all possible presents in ever to bits, and back
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| from the bed to the bills you see nothing but
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| pit within (x10)
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| So long gone (x8)
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| From the bed to the bills you see nothing but pit within pit
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| And an undeniable feeding
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| From the bed to the bills you see nothing but pit within pit
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| And more this
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| A honey smothered hand gun all covered in ants,
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| trembles on a three quarter length corinthian column |