| Wake up and waste a day
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| Chase away
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| A day at a time and waste away
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| Clean-faced today, clean taste of yay
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| Toothpaste makes my orange juice sour
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| Waste an hour or so
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| My shower is slow
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| The flowers that grow
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| Outside of my window
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| Are blooming I’m assuming
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| That you’re comin' over soon
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| It’s almost half past four
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| And you called here at noon
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| 'Cause there’s a picture that you wanna see
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| Now I’m not even good at being me anymore
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| She got nicotine-basted lungs
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| Wasted thumbs
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| And one of them asphalt-tasting tongues
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| She wakes up to alarm
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| Her make-up is still on
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| And she can’t remember why she set the damn thing
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| Her heart is a machine
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| Art is meant to be seen
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| Not felt, not heard
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| It’s just paint they’re just words
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| And fingers are for feeling
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| Fists are for beating
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| Scabs are for healing
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| And blood is for bleeding
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| That’s just how I used to be
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| But I’m not even good at being me anymore
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| I wake up and waste an hour
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| Pace and glower
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| At the TV set wasting power
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| And aching in my head
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| I’m banking in the red
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| And compulsively charging cd’s to my account
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| So come out Virginia
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| Don’t make me wait
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| You Catholic girls start much too late
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| Now it’s too late in the day for a matinee
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| And I ain’t got the money to pay for you anyway
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| What should I say?
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| I know it ain’t how it used to be
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| But I’m not good at being me anymore |