Be gone now be on your way '96 was such a waste but we all saw what was comin'. It's lost now somewhere a dispraprotioned cigarette be we all got what was coming.
I'm not afraid of your poor soul your face is an imprint of foul play.
It's all gone it's wasted away the door is hanging from some building in between for us to stray. There is no place for us for you and I no where safe us to run just some played out ideas of the good times.
I'm not afraid of your poor soul your face is an imprint of foul play. I'm so afraid of the warm floor it melts the taste of the gold rings.
We're all awake for the old souls, pulling them out one by one. There's god in these torn up photos, plastered with fake names and postcards.
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