I suck sick streets
Don’t settle for beats
Die fast in dreams
Cut hearts with my mystery
Lean against high glass, face the tug that time has...
 
My mind is a pasture
With back stage passes
Holding on to a pattern
That tells me I’m ancient...
 
He becomes the fascist
Because he cannot look at this
I believe he’ll change as I slowly go insane...
 
And my boy down the lane...
Who can see it all plain
Has the sun in his veins...
Knows in fragmented towers
That the game isn’t ours
You’re a brilliant bohemian...
Silenced in so-called luck...

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