The masquerader in the mirror
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appears to be a certain stranger to me
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he slips a film of glow through glow on his hand
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and paints my features where his face ought to be
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young flesh, young frame
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slow pulse, no pain
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inside my fit on skin
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sometimes I wonder just where to begin
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I need action
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inside my fit on skin
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I make a novel of everything
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it's like fiction
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inside my fit on skin
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another side of my twin
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The face he fits is unmistakably mine
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without a trace he leaves the scene of the crime
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the story always reads exactly the same
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I need my live protection all the time
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Skin
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Icehouse |