. . .
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There was no reason to complain
it's all been candy cream
neatly, smooth and clean forever
The battle seemed so far away
she never felt the pain
but then one day it came a little
Yet things happend just that way
realize your fate
shut it down, increase the pressure
There was no reason to complain
it's all been candy cream
neatly, smooth and clean forever
. . .
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Quit your jobs
Don't cross you fingers
Don't work for people
You can't trust
Quit their money
Leave their places
Slam the door and
Don't look back
You've been here so long
Don't take the middle curse
Don't hesitate, it's overdue
Suit or revolt, it's up to you
. . .
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Born
Bored
Discovered
All the things we do are pin-up sweet
Born
Bought
Discouraged
All the things we do are pin-up sweet
In between we're recorders
In between we try
. . .
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Coisas que acontecem no contratempo
Não se sujeitam ao consenso
Ficam no fundo
Enquanto o resíduo perece
Sabedorias feitas na manga
Servem ao estado presente
Ficam distinto(s)
Enquanto a maioria embarga
Se a relação do contratempo
E do tempo presente
Assimilarem
Não se precisava de viagens cosmonáuticas
As teorias seriam atendidas
Mas a inteligência limita a autonomia humana
. . .
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I've never said you'll have to
be afraid
of the cookie monster
beside your bed
It's not the real
The real one's in your head
Beyond control
The true one cuts you dead
It's a real fight
It's a war
When destruction takes over
There is no escape
Every shot on target
Perpetrator knows how to strike
. . .
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. . .
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We should know you then
We know your ways, your sorrows
We will take you in
We care if you will fail
You could know better
You should know all this
We would soothe you then
We should believe in wonder
We should know you then
We know your ways, your sorrows
You could know better
You should know all this
. . .
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Don't think
I'm too slow for you talking
So quick your mouth moves
Can't think
As I am answering your questions
But you won't listen anyway
I could be mute
. . .
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They say nothing to me
I say nothing to them.
Sometimes I can't believe this is home.
I've heard it before.
I thought I'd been over that.
You'll never really pass the things
you're afraid of.
The man on the plastic bag looks like terror.
He's staring at me. I can't say why.
His face seems spoiled.
When I think of calling a friend, I notice that
most of them have mutilated into acquaintances
Maybe that's my fault, maybe it's a form of getting old
I'm used to small talk at the moment.
. . .
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. . .
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