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At your house |
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The smell of our still-living human bodies and oven gas |
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You pray to nothing out loud |
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Two first names and an ampersand |
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Embroidered proudly on a kitchen towel |
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You're a beautiful and violent work |
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With the skinny neck of a Chinese bird |
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In a fading ancient painting |
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And if you're in heaven waiting |
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You made it there fighting |
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The tightest kite string |
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In a bad storm with lightning |
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And now these few presidents |
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Frowning in my pocket |
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Can persuade no god |
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To let me let you talk, oh |
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These few presidents |
|
Frowning in my pocket |
|
Can persuade no god |
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To let me let you off |
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Even though I haven't seen you in years |
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Yours is a funeral I'd fly to from anywhere |
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I thought I had a pebble in my sock |
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I pulled it off and shook out a wasp |
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It stumbled out lost |
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And without a pause |
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Unstung as I was |
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Still I stomped it |
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I thought, there is no my paved street worthy |
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Of your perfect Scandinavian feet |
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Wha, wha, wha, my crooked Chinese fingers groped |
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The machinery of your throat |
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And now these few presidents |
|
Frowning in my pocket |
|
Can persuade no god |
|
To let me let you talk, oh |
|
These few presidents |
|
Frowning in my pocket |
|
Can persuade no god |
|
To let me let you off |
|
Even though I haven't seen you in years |
|
Yours is a funeral I'd fly to from anywhere |