| He sits in your room, his tomb, with a fist full of tacks
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| Preoccupied with his vengeance
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| Cursing the dead that can’t answer him back
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| I’m sure that he has no intentions
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| Of looking your way, unless it’s to say
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| That he needs you to test his inventions
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| Can you please crawl out your window?
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| Use your arms and legs it won’t ruin you
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| How can you say he will haunt you?
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| You can go back to him any time you want to
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| He looks so truthful, is this how he feels
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| Trying to peel the moon and expose it
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| With his businesslike anger and his bloodhounds that kneel
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| If he needs a third eye he just grows it
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| He just needs you to talk or to hand him his chalk
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| Or pick it up after he throws it
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| Why does he look so righteous while your face is so changed
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| Are you frightened of the box you keep him in
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| While his genocide fools and his friends rearrange
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| Their religion of the little tin women
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| That backs up their views but your face is so bruised
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| Come on out the dark is beginning |