| I’ve been habitually rubbing the sleep from my eyes
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| I see the rain does not respect state lines, why should you?
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| And I’ve seen dirt dry fires arise by pissing boy fountain statues
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| And they say electricity can travel up your piss stream
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| Oh, am I too concerned with the burn of scrutiny?
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| Cold, chased, run and covered like a horse before the race
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| Will I gain weight in later life?
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| And when will someone swing a scythe against me?
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| Out of every woman on earth, who will I mate with?
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| Or will I spit empty threats until all that’s left
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| Is a million zeros printed on a roll of ticker-tape?
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| And one last echo of the final tiny wave in my wake?
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| Will all my unused seed collect like mercury
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| In some kind of afterlife for halves?
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| Should I offer up my lats and pecs as stakes in death?
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| Whatever the will of the people shall be, Ohio and me
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| But am I too concerned with the burn of scrutiny?
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| Cold chased on run and covered like a horse before the race
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| Will I gain weight in later life?
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| And when will someone swing a scythe against me?
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| Oh I’d rest in peace on a freshly cleaned and steamed plush carpet for sure
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| In the vacant third floor of a department store
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| Or be hung with four nails on the projection wall
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| In an empty convention center banquet hall
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| That’s right, I, like everybody else is
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| Ashamed of sleep, I lie when a phone call wakes me
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| Oh am I too concerned with the burn of scrutiny?
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| Cold chased on run and covered like a horse before the race
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| Will I gain weight in later life?
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| And when will someone swing a scythe against me? |