| WILLIAM MCDOWELL
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| I will make myself, a mile from the racetrack, drag my losses home
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| It kills me not come back
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| And we float with parasites all our lives
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| There’s me with the geriatrics at the slot machines
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| There’s me, the embodiment of how slow life can be
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| There’s me
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| Their dead eyes are glowing. |
| Mine are always shut
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| I passed out on the road, just hours from the racetrack
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| I saw Lamotta raise a toast
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| He said «you got me with the right jab.»
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| And we float with parasites all our lives with this advice
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| We learn until we’re dead
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| Be losers til your sanguine thoughts subside
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| We learn until we’re dead
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| A falling dream’s not just a morbid sign
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| It’s opportunity
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| If you could make this old heart young again I’d find another topic to drone on
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| A more fashionable vice to lean on
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| Some better words to speak on that escaped my younger form
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| But there’s me with the geriatrics at the slot machines
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| There’s me
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| The embodiment of how slow life can be
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| There’s me
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| Short of imposing, please be involved
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| Can I stop imploding at every obstacle thrown on me?
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| Imply this is only a prettier glimpse of a life so ugly that’s mine |