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Sometimes I worry that I've lost the plotMy twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughtsI never really dreamed of heaven muchUntil we put him in the ground.
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And I sing and sing of awful thingsThe pleasure that my sadness brings.
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Little soldier, little insectYou know war it has no heartIt will kill you in the sunshineOr happily in the the darkWhere kindness is a card gameOr a bent up cigaretteIn the trenches, in the hard rainWith a bullet and a bet.
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The world's become a little too mean.
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I understand why people get desensitized and roll their eyes when they hear a protest song, or even a politician making some flowery speech. It doesn't really change anything.
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One by one I drowned all the people I’d been.
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Well, I could have been a famous singerIf I had someone else's voiceBut failure's always sounded betterLet's fuck it up, boys, make some noise!
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I swear that I'm dyingslowly but it's happening, and if the perfect spring is waiting somewhere...just take me there.
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And you speak of a fever, that burns you inside,as you explain to your mother, how you've wanted to die.So she kisses your fingers, and says 'My darling, but why?When there is so much more. There is so much more.'
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A kid that picks up a record, he doesn't need to know anything other than the music and have it in his or her headphones. They're getting ideas directly, it's like someone whispering in their ear. That's such a personal way to receive information.
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My head's a carousel of pictures andThe spinning never stops.
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Oh, I've made love, yeah, I've been fucked, so what?I'm a cartoon, you're a full moon, let's stay up.
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I would say I'm a humanist. I like that. I mean, I don't claim to know anything, but I'm curious about it all. I'm always fascinated when people really fervently believe, because I have such a hard time believing anything.
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In a coma, you don't dream,you just hope that someone sits with you.
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And I'm sorry about the phone call and needing youSome decisions you don't makeI guess it's just like breathing or not wanting toThere are some things you can't fake
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I believe that vinyl will outlast CDs. There's no reason for it, but it stays around because there are still people that want them.
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On a detox loft through a Glendale Park over sidewalk chalkSomeone wrote in red, 'start over.'
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We're all too busy working, entertaining ourselvesWith forty hours, television and prescription pills Well, I take two a day to help my brain behaveIt never does, but who's to say? At least my doctor gets paid.
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So I want to get myself attached to something bolted down,So that these winds of circumstance won't keep blowing me around.From when I land to when I leavethere is enough time to sleep and sing.I keep running around, when all I want is to lay motionless.
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I'd rather be working for a paycheck, than waiting to win the lottery.Besides, maybe this time it's different, I mean,I really think you like me.
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So when your new eyes meet mine they won't see no lies, just love.
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I always embrace the worst-case scenario.
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The drunk kids, the catholicsThey’re all about the sameThey’re waiting for somethingHoping to be saved
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I believe that vinyl will outlast CDs.