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He sits and smiles at his big CV |
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thinking he's just |
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a piece of some being |
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What exactly is he trying to prove? |
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I wake up beside my bed and I look at the clock |
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and I scratch my head |
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Where am I supposed to be? |
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I know what I wish that I could see |
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He could have been a contender |
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Once drunk he said to me |
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A brilliant fiction writer |
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But he had to leave it be |
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I bang into my desk again and I look at the clock, |
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God it's only ten |
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At least I know I plan on moving on |
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I look at him with his cobweb eyes amusing |
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himself with a wacky tie |
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What is he supposed to be? |
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Creation lost in apathy |
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He could have been a contender |
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Once drunk he said to me |
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So why not make it happen? |
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Even Pupkin had his way |
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He could have been a contender |
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Once drunk he said to me |
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Well there's one shot in the barrel |
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I'm done with sympathy |