| In bed with cold
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| Brittle and old like The Dead Sea scrolls
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| His weak pulse it shakes his whole
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| Frame, shame‚ same bones and sloped
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| Narrow shoulders of a woman on a wagon
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| Heading west‚ bound homeward
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| Folks he knows that he’s gotta let go
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| Be released of the anger at least‚ geez
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| Uh, but it’s burrowed deep in his soul
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| Hidden like a pebble in snow
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| (Yo!)
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| (Yo!)
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| Baby’s been born with a beard worn and haggard
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| Weird and jagged in crowds
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| He stammers profoundly even amongst friends
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| And locks up like a tin ornithopter
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| Too tightly wound
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| He’s lonesome and wanting
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| Groping for something
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| Foraging closeness from shadows retreating
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| And like a pro-
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| Foundly confused
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| Infant in the endless cold night
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| He finally finds his own thumb
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| And numbs himself back into sleep
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| He says
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| («What an old and strange son’s life is mine
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| When I come off stage they stand in line to meet me»)
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| When I come off stage they stand in line
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| (What an old and strange son’s life is mine)
|
| The surgeon nervously goes on
|
| He never claimed to be God
|
| Just a vessel for impulse pressing into several directions
|
| Dressing and undressing the wound I’m used to
|
| Voom-voom, voom-voom‚ voom
|
| «Who do I tell the truth to?»
|
| Just a vessel for impulse pressing into several directions
|
| Dressing and undressing the wound I’m used to
|
| On a how-to on Youtube
|
| Who do I tell the truth to?
|
| Stressing and confessing from the Jetta on Nokia through Bluetooth
|
| The surgeon nervously goes on |