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Reaching for his pen, he then commence to try to write the story of his life |
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Working all day and sleeping all night, what was there to say, what was there to write |
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Loving is for rich men, hating is for poor men, money is for fighters, crying is for writers |
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Living in the center of his own little world, his face never seen, his voice never heard |
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An endless stream of sorrow flows, a victim of the life he chose |
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Might as well write about the working of a 40 oil spot combustion engine |
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Putting down his pen, he turned and said I want to live but I wish I were dead |
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ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh |
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ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh |