I awoke so invincible the state indivisible hasn't had the chance to finish me yet.
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The force of law notwithstanding moans, groans and the sting of student loans.
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I hit the ground running,
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with subsidized funding laughing at the irony of the pub
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where we'll dine on the hands that feed,
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and pay the check by need according to ability.
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Presumed dead by the Kings on whom we've fed,
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smile quiet when we lift their wallets.
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Somewhere there's a tanker named Condoleeza carving out its meager existence,
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leaking out crude to the oceans, washing up on the banks just to trickle down.
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Tired and half-dead, walking in half-steps, shuffling home in the snow,
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we'll throw a short breath to the matron saint
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of the kids who wait and sitting on armed hands.
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Hey, what's that you say?
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No one's listening anyway?
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So let's just buy another round, get the platform down, and move the shadow cabinet along.
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What we do precedes our voice, we're not making any noise.
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So have your mouth concealed and keep your eyes peeled for a rock that'll do the same.
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This ain't no hit parade.
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And it's not a mess we've made.
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Nevermind what we'll do tomorrow night.
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Because where we come from it's called "playing dumb",
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it'll get you what you need till your boss' back's turned.
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We'll drink from noon till nightmare.
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This self immolation, part of our recreation, adheres to our functional paradigm.
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No better way to spot a comrade; we rely on Vino Veritas.
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Back at the homestead, loaded and well-fed,
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we'll yearn for a greater sustenance:
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fights till light about laws and rights out of sight
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and what we'll do when the fires smolder.
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This doesn't look like Grub St.
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Where's my Cafe Voltaire?
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I never read it this way, subversion isn't the same.
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Here's to accounting for inherent failure.
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Raise your glass to black masks.
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Pay respects to efforts past.
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Without danger, we ask, what merits the task of protecting dead, dry, blue eyes?
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One more round for the broken-hearted.
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Called a movement and it barely started.
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We're what dissent is about.
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We might scream and lash out.
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But not until we've sung our Pict Song.
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Black Friar's Union Of Thursday Night Anarchists
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Bombs Over Providence |