| Lay me down in a hearseback
|
| It’s where my new best look is at
|
| If I slit a purse or two then I can’t curse
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| If my cake is cooked and minor veins are mapped
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| These tits not filled with milk
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| These cold bones wrapped in hunger
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| Like a bundle of sticks in a fire
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| So slow it leaves them unburned, black and yearning
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| Will this New Year’s see my rotting hair’s release?
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| Will my new black book pull the sick from my deepest creases?
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| A gift from The Maccabees to mom to me
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| No more flyer-backs or receipts
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| Using magazines for tables
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| A girl’s down bed
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| And corresponding naked wings unable
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| When I felt my ribs come closing slow
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| A row of snakes set to strangle
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| I’m survived
|
| Lay me down in a hearseback
|
| It’s where my new best look is at
|
| If I slit a purse or two then I can’t curse
|
| If my cake is cooked and minor veins are mapped
|
| But you might find me in the white pages yet
|
| My name is next to numbers
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| Like someone’s father’s father
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| Left listed in the Book of Numbers
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| Like someone’s father’s father
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| Left listed in the Book of Numbers |