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Catching whispers on the phone |
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But the whispers get away. |
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Making entries in our diaries |
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With all the things we think they say. |
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Can you hear it? |
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I can't hear it! |
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Can you see it? |
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I can't see it! |
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We've been feeding the vermin, |
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Now they're hanging around. |
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Can't we take back the sermon |
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That we tossed to the crowd? |
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Obsessed with the excess |
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But stuffed with a crumb. |
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The lessons progress less |
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As professors succumb. |
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They're craving confusion |
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When starved of sense |
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And graven confusion |
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Has been heaven sent. |
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Can you do it? |
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I can't do it! |
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This is the way the sick people play: |
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Hands in their pockets, goose bumps on display. |
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This is the way the well people drink: |
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Mouths on the spigots of the sick people's sink. |
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In the town square, |
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In the city hall, |
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In the war room, |
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On a conference call, |
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They set the date to drop the bomb |
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And sit and wait with perfect calm. |
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I wanna do it! |
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If you call this living, |
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If you call that love, |
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If you'd call the cops before |
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God above, |
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If you'd call the cops before |
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God below, |
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If you call this culture, |
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Then I think you'll know, |
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The stone cold con and the 6-6-6, |
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We're trading our eyeballs in for asterisks. |
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We're trading our idols in for rapprochement. |
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We're burning the bridges that we're crossing on. |
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I wanna do it! |