| You will never be lucked in this world boy
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| So sadly picked for a thick fitting of silk
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| Bathed in brandy, then dried to perfection
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| In the six month width of Alaskan sun
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| So you might won, so you might win
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| Worlds over effortlessly, nah boy
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| You will be shown how to work the crank that
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| Turns the streets to face the rich and just reflect them
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| And if fools can have songs about nothing but wealth…
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| Damned if I’m a not sick whole sonnets on death
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| To ring a needle width a light out of the dark I crept
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| And for those who slept fuck em now I know
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| Exactly which whay I oughta be sending the wolves
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| When we meet, cause I have had my fill
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| Of seeing this flesh hit teeth, it’s like me
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| Calling blood back to the front of my cuts
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| To do what, to wear pants to wipe blood
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| To cut luck, to… not walk and sleep
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| At the same time
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| I think of paper thin wounds
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| And mile long lines… |