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what i feel when i'm playing guitar |
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is completely cold and crazy, |
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like i don't owe nobody nothing |
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and it's just a test just to see |
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how far i can relax |
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into the cold wave of a note. |
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when everything hits just right (just and right) |
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the note of nobility can go on forever. |
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i never tire of the solitary E |
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and i trust my guitar |
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and i don't care about anything. |
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sometimes i feel like i've broken through |
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and i'm free and i could dig into eternity |
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into eternity riding the wave |
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and realm of the E. |
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sometimes it's useless. |
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here i am struggling and filled with dread |
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afraid that i'll never squeeze enough |
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graphite from my damaged cranium |
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to inspire or asphyxiate any eyes |
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grazing like hungry cows across the stage or page. |
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inside of me i'm crazy i'm just crazy. |
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inside i must continue. |
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i see her, my stiff muse, |
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jutting around round round |
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round like a broken speeding statue. |
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the colonial year is dead |
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and the greeks too are finished. |
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the face of alexander remains not only solely |
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due to sculpture but through the power and foresight |
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and magnetism of alexander himself. |
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the artist must maintain his swagger. |
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he must he must he must be intoxicated |
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by ritual as well as result. |
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look at me i am laughing. |
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i am laughing. |
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i am lapping cocaine from the hard brown palm |
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of the bouncer. and i trust my guitar. |
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therefore we black out together. |
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therefore i would run through scum. |
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and scum is just ahead, ah we see it, |
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but we just laugh. |
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we're ascending through the hollow mountain. |
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we are peeking. |
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we are laughing. |
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we are kneeling. |
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we are laughing. |
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we are radiating at last. |
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this rebellion is just a gas |
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our gas a gas that we pass. |