This state it cannot be sound
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For seeing through
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The day with fresh eyes
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Try to lick these bits
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Back into place
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These tanks bore there wintry weight
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To wake to these scraps of morn
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It bears a stone
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And that¡¯s what i¡¯ve become
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These legs are built upon a surly demise
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We all reach for a hand in which we will guide
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Let¡¯s sit quiet and we shall not stir
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Your mouth is fragrant
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And lassoing this room
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And never is too long to date
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Your crusty petals are prying away
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Pails of cheer have become stains
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Surly Demise
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Shannon Wright |