| When we were little kids
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| We tried the seven deadly sins
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| In the attic, every summertime
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| In the attic, every summertime
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| The wet felt, smelling, silent kind
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| We’d play light as a feather
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| Stiff as a board
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| And you’d press to my hips
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| As we’d slip through the floor
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| The grey, grey ghost is coming out
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| Of the bright, white sheet that was wrapped about him
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| The shade, shade, shade could have been mistaken
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| But I swear that the sunlight was shooting straight through him
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| Let’s make a mess of this banquet
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| While your bones are soaked in blood
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| When your skin and cells are bankrupt
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| You’ll be deposit in the dust
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| Let’s try to stay soft
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| Remember to bend
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| The chance to get supple may not come again
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| 'Cause in time, you will find rigor mortis sets in
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| 'Cause in time, you will find rigor mortis sets in
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| Well, I failed and I failed
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| But my failures were passing
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| Grew hair and a tail
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| And was all the while asking
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| «Does it stay like this?»
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| And, «Will it end like this?»
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| «Does it stay like this?»
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| And, «Will it end like this?»
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| I’m afraid that you’re fading away
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| You’re not coming in clear
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| I’m afraid that the games that we’ve played
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| Have turned desperate and dear
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| Let’s try to stay soft
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| Remember to bend
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| The chance to get supple may not come again
|
| 'Cause in time, you will find rigor mortis sets in
|
| 'Cause in time, you will find rigor mortis sets in
|
| Well, I failed and I failed
|
| But my failures were passing
|
| Grew hair and a tail
|
| And was all the while asking
|
| «Does it stay like this?»
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| And, «Will it end like this?»
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| «Does it stay like this?»
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| And, «Will it end like this?»
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| All that you cherish will perish
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| All that you punish will pass
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| I know you’ll hit the ground running
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| When you ditch the road at last
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| Well, we failed and we failed
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| But our failures were passing
|
| Grew hair and a tail
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| And were all the while asking
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| «Does it stay like this?»
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| And, «Will it end like this?»
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| «Is this supposed to hurt
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| Or are we sensitive?»
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| There’ll be no red rose the day you die
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| There’ll be flies 'round your nose
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| And rings 'round your eyes
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| The clock ticks on
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| We don’t have a say
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| We let one hand wash the other’s dirt away
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| We’re doing way too much
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| We do it way too often
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| What used to be a crutch
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| Has become a coffin
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| It’s been good to be alive
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| But I’ve simply got to go
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| Someone’s on the other line
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| And they’re calling for my soul |