Your silver tongue laughs at the clowns of our age
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A slow production line of cheap-shots from both sides
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Shot from the hip to my seventh rib
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A spoiled tomato lies in all that you say
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And I was the last of us to know
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Sound the alarm for my sentimental ways
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Have come in view and we've all got our own knives
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Sold to the worst of the devils we know
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Our mind and tight skin will be old
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But this wasn't meant for us to know
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Youth's open shutters
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Give way to another
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Taken by slight of hand...
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And every American
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Has the mouth of a pelican
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Now can I share that pillow with you love?
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They've got us in fits to find a way out
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Of this exploded view of a life once so simple
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First with the curse that my sentimental ways
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Are drawing my innocence to a close
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And these were not meant for me to know
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My Seventh Rib
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The Shins |