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Each of these old light leaves is dirt |
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Barely held together by |
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tiny bone hands that |
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used to be alive, |
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Holding hands, |
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Loose gripped |
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at the deja vu |
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dream scene end |
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of a lifelong relationship. |
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These light leaves |
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is my hair on the bathroom floor. |
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My smaller selves |
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down the sewer somewhere |
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under Berkeley, Cincinnati, or on tour |
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(Airplane rear |
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and hotel lobby ladies' rooms beware) |
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Is these leave leaves |
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bagged up in plastic, |
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never to decompose or fertilize. |
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When my balls are finally big enough to do it |
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I don't want no casket |
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no saddle |
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no see-through plastic mask. |
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And when I finally do it, |
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I want to do the dirt like the dead leaves do. |
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And if you do leave the Earth |
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when the Earth leaves you |
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cold and hard as a marble table top |
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with nothing on top |
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there's no hip hip hop hurray |
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heaping heaven golden bone gateway, |
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no bright confetti high-step march |
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tickertape parade. |
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There's no mound of clouds to lounge on. |