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Content nausea, World War Four |
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Seems like it all came too soon |
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Another carnage apparatus |
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Such a dissapointing doom |
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Abuse money, abuse drugs |
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Abuse body, abuse mind |
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People use such strange excuses |
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Always have done no clue why |
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Most folks think and some folks know |
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Likes the police when you don't let go |
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Of a memory, of a dream |
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Like an hometown better seen |
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On a screen or at a distance |
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Like the best without resistance |
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People clicked and people read |
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'Modern Life' is what it said |
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Pretty pictures, pretty lives |
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I peered into once or twice |
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I'll go back but not today |
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It's nice to visit but it's hard to stay |
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In the grips of bad dimension |
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Too much data, too much tension |
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Too much plastic, Too much glass |
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Like the police when beers are passed |
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My friend he won't leave his home |
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Says 'I am a bonfire of human bones' |
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I am a bonfire of human bones |
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I am a bonfire of human bones |
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And am I under some spell? |
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And do my thoughts belong to me? |
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Or just some slogan I ingested to save time? |
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This night is missing people |
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The singer had no-one |
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Hardly no-one, it had shapes, it had light |
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Some were flashing, most moved |
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Me, I couldn't look away |
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But still no-one came or left they just stayed |
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But they weren't there in the first place |
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Overpopulated by nothing, crowded by a sparseness |
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Guided by darkness, too much, not enough |
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Content, that's what you'd call it |
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An infant screaming in every room in your gut |
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Bets strum on an intention but best left unattended |
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How gathered the pixels in the dust of the digital age to our being |
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With what do I wash? |
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Put on some music |
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My friend walks the same path every day |
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Steep the stairwell, cognizance to coma |
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And know him best he can |
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An inconvenient reality |
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The consequential chore that unfolds in the naked sprint from screen to screen |
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Scrolling binary ghettos for escape for reminders |
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And this would be a good idea to free poets |
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From the back padding dungeons of content and comments |
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To free artists from empty and vulgar broadcasting ritual |
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For this year it became harder to be tender |
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Harder and harder to remember |
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Meeting a friend, writing a letter |
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Being lost, antique ritual |
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All lost to the ceremony of progress |
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Like the sensual organs removed |
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They're only weighing you down, you didn't need them |
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Ignore this part, it's an advertisement |
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These people are famous, I'd trust them |
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Protesters stayed home this time around |
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Some enlisted, some never heard the first shots |
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Well I've been north and I've been south |
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I've been west and I've been east |
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Been around long enough to know |
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Life's lived best when scrolling least |
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Just a broken piece of plastic |
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Just another new device |
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Just another nervous habit |
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One more thing you have to buy |
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Just one more thing to replace |
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One more way to block your face |
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Too much data, Too much tension |
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Life's lived least when less is mentioned |
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Wasting dollars, wasting hours |
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Wasting talent with wasted power |
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No one says it but it's known |
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The more connected, the more alone |
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My prints stays at the home in the dark |
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Never walks up to the park |
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Always nauseous, always tired |
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I am a landmine, wrong supplier |
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I am a landmine |