| I can’t help myself
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| I keep ending up in Memorial Park
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| Breaking finger nails while I claw at the frozen ground
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| Because as long as I’m home
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| I can dig up these bones
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| There’s no point to just letting go
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| And as long as you’ve known me I’ve been backing out slowly
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| I won’t end up underneath the snow, the snow
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| This is where it’s been
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| The manger scene every Christmas
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| Next to the cannon
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| Every year someone steals baby Jesus
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| Nobody stops them
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| It’s a nice tradition
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| I’ll put my life back together in silence
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| While writing songs on Molly’s guitar
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| And Suburbia, stop pushing
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| I know what I’m doing
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| So I moved myself and two boxes of things
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| To the basement room at Richie’s house
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| And I’m happy here for now
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| Because I’ve been in search of some steadier footing
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| Or just a place to call home
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| I know that I’m introspective when broken
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| But I’ve been spending most of my nights here alone
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| And that doesn’t scare me like it did a year ago
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| I’ll put my life back together in silence
|
| While writing songs on Molly’s guitar
|
| And Suburbia, stop pushing
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| I know what I’m doing
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| Suburbia, stop pushing
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| I know what I’m doing
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| Suburbia, stop pushing
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| I know what I’m doing
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| I had dreams of myself
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| As the Allen Ginsberg of this generation
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| But without the talent, madness or vision
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| I guess it’s looking hopeless
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| We’re a city left digging out cars in unison
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| And humming like we’ve healed
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| I know we’ve got miles to go
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| But I’m putting my shoulder to the wheel |