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Somewhere between motivated and cold |
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You on the ledge of all 241 ways to be you |
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Basing guess upon guess, there, where |
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Somewhere between motivated and cold |
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Believing your good friends down to the bile in their beauty marks |
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They who found you counting back toward yourself |
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So haven't dreamt and heavily armed |
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Yet another blues thief told in however and one day |
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And every Monday things begin with indiscriminate street noise |
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More vague and normal alliance of all those with high levels |
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Of work in their blood and clock in their wake up |
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Early shaving damp, breakfast skulls with fresh lady's leg razor |
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So that the one day the moon might hold a half million nice size |
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Hoods easy and plenty fast restaurants |
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By cum and by egg |
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And laid low into creature |
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Then cast out in the one cold of all names |
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This song is about disavowed sperm |
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And the mining of human concern |
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Many cells split, many men died in 1998 |
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The year of my strong, fair rap collection |
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There are foot prints embraced far out on the frozen lake face |
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Depressed and kept from quite some cold ago |
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And they look brave, dangerous, man made |
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The sort of mark one can make on the world |
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You borrowed the camera from why |
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And set it up over by the printer and horse head |
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Obsessed with your pressing record |
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To indulge in the shadows of both here and immortal |
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Is it god to name things from thin air? |
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To have the wind blow a few hundred dollar bills into your wallet |
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To have 100 CC's liquid luck supplement |
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Dug into your blood by needle point and distant star |
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Are you busy losing yourself? |
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In the quiet cell of abandoned old Oakland |
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Pants undone, stole eye starting to water |
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Nailing a sign that speaks fear to a bank at the man made lake |
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You cop, you |
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Will you now resort to black umbrellas in the sight blanching sun |
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Or stay indoors taking the pill to your face? |
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Striking that lightning on nothing |
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Attempting to teach yourself the art of cloning at home |
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In a smock killing single cell sheep for straight weeks |
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'Til you give it all up for Photoshop and using your teeth |
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There in a box with your things, stabbed air holes |
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And one wing or white lung when your well will you stay |
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Since there is a certain modern earth pain |
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Only fit for enduring, which one does endure? |
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Like returning a foster child twice or going |
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The distance on songs for somebody else's compilation |
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No one's out there scared you'd set your eyes off |
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All night on the ceiling in the dark think of a song or maybe breasts |
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I thought I told you, this is not new |
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Skinned by the speed of my one life |
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You have the desperate fair to your eyes |
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The look of a child who has just swallowed a coin or army man |
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Almost too attuned to the spoils of loved |
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Wishing he'd been born some sort of succulent or larvae |
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But you're too soft for all that |
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You like your blood kept in the movies |
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And your head in a jar or a vase in a van on tour |
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Your guts clumped like dung in a sturdy hatbox |
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Heart slung safely in the stomach of a clean sock or two |
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Here you are a bag of milk to do tricks |
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And not as a function of pennies and how you've dreamt |
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Nosdam's skull been predatored given a split at the hairline |
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And hinged with a lid and in it placed |
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The single hard marble of art and it is there it is kept |