| One year in every ten
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| A sort of walking miracle, my skin
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| Bright as a Nazi lampshade
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| My face a featureless, fine
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| The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
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| The grave cave ate will be
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| And I a smiling woman
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| And like the cat I have nine times to die
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| To annihilate each decade
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| What a million filaments
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| The peanut-crunching crowd
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| Them unwrap me hand and foot--
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| I may be skin and bone
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| Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman
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| The first time it happened I was ten
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| The second time I meant
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| To last it out and not come back at all
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| They had to call and call
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| And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls
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| Is an art, like everything else
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| I do it exceptionally well
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| I do it so it feels like hell
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| I do it so it feels real
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| I guess you could say I’ve a call
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| It’s easy enough to do it in a cell
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| It’s easy enough to do it and stay put
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| Comeback in broad day
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| To the same place, the same face, the same brute
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| For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
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| For the hearing of my heart--
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| And there is a charge, a very large charge
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| For a word or a touch
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| Or a piece of my hair or my clothes
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| That melts to a shriek
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| Do not think I underestimate your great concern
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| Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
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| Herr God, Herr Lucifer
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| I rise with my red hair
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| And I eat men like air |