| The Waxman’s moving his shoulders
|
| He walks down reading the paper
|
| But the tar sticks, top of the feet
|
| Like a neighbor, he yells in the street
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| And he’s a dead palm, still on the beach
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| But his hair’s gone, a bottle of bleach
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| In the water, the news was printed on his arm all along
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| Sliding through the open air
|
| Hands are placed into the dirt
|
| Feeling 'round for something
|
| He is always there
|
| I’m getting closer, making my way to him
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| Older, I’m much too young for him
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| He can take my skin and replace
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| The wax so he won’t melt on down
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| I’ll give him all of my feelings
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| If I’m dead now, it was worth seeing
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| If he would let me live inside his mind for a while
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| I’m sliding through the open air
|
| My hands are placed into the dirt
|
| I’m feeling 'round for something
|
| I am always there
|
| I’m sliding through the open air
|
| My hands are placed into the dirt
|
| Feeling 'round for something
|
| I am always there
|
| I am always there
|
| I am always there
|
| I am always there |