| Is there any hope for us, or are the rumors true?
|
| Are we just the mulch and kindling that accrues?
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| Can we recover from this?
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| I’ve seen expressions in department stores.
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| I’ve smelled regression wafting up from these shores.
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| This is not a celebration of slipping through some crack.
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| This is sloth and devastation and we’re the resulting trash.
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| Count all your fingers tonight.
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| And believe what you find!
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| (I'm sick of making small talk in this rotting chowline.)
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| Can we recover?
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| We cover our heads and run for the gutter!
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| Toby Keith’s horses and Toby Keith’s men
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| Finally put us all in our place.
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| It’s a wonderful hug when there’s so much MORE to love,
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| When there’s steaks and hearts jammed in your face.
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| This is the fucking slop line and we’re scratching with our hooves.
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| How much of evolution must we finally disprove?
|
| Count all your fingers tonight.
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| I can’t believe what we find.
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| Can we recover?
|
| We cover our heads and we run for the gutter!
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| Dear Mother,
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| I’m sorry. |
| There was nowhere left to run.
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| We fought and we fought until our bullets ran out,
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| And they took us one by one.
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| Dear Mother,
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| I’m sorry. |
| We had just barely begun.
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| This will be the last letter from your only son.
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| Yeah I do not believe!
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| Recover as one… |