| Oh, we are nothing but what always leave behind
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| Withering into the sun
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| Side color nearest humming bird on a wire
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| Eyeing the cloak of the sun
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| Yes, we are nothing but what always leave behind
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| And this Canadian poetries and incantations and a bullet on a ride
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| I haven’t read them, I will not read them
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| For they dwell too much on times
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| Yes, the desert is at sea and
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| I left this bullwhip with the night stand
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| Julliard was a thousand miles away
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| Where are you gonna run when the clouds break?
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| And the sun peaks it eyes with attitude and rises itself on big lust lust
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| Feeling in big ranges rocks
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| Feeling in the big ranges rocks rocks
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| Feeling in the big ranges rocks
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| It signifies I am being petrified in all the rolling shit we left behind
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| White pages of ages rocking the paint of ages
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| Looking at your graceless depictions of life
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| To read
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| There shall be nothing left to write
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| And that’s when I cannonball them all
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| I left this bullwhip with the night stand
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| Julliard you were a thousand miles across when you said it drops
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| Feeling in the big ranges rocks
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| Feeling in the big ranges rocks rocks
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| Feeling in the big ranges rocks uh
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| La-la-la-la-lum |