| I’m having identity crises
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| «no we’re not.» |
| «yes we are.»
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| I’m having identity crises
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| «no we’re not.» |
| «yes we are.»
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| I don’t have a feeling that hasn’t been felt, feeling on my felt tip
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| Showing my hand… revealing what i’ve dealt with
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| And how i’m dealing. |
| cut the deck. |
| evenly distribute the pieces
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| Of shit talking during our disputes on weekends
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| We can sing along to each other’s song, right?
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| Even if the interpretation is wrong, right?
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| Just make sure you don’t bring the wrong mike
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| 'cause i don’t care about meeting a boyfriend we can all like (nah!)
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| This song is called trite, hope ya like it
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| Could’ve substituted your name with the title but i decided that i’d keep it
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| private
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| Violent dream sequences just seem endless
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| I can see myself making a heated entrance
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| To your workplace with a smirk on my face
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| And a tongue in my cheek. |
| and a gun in my reach
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| Sneaking naked photos of myself under the seats of your co-workers
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| Putting a knife to your throat and screaming out «i won’t hurt her!»
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| They’re like, «let her go!»
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| And i’m like, «let her grow!»
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| Prisoners wouldn’t listen to this. |
| their rational side was out on a furlough
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| I like turbo-nuclear family affairs
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| I want a wife, a house, and two and a half mistresses to call when i’m not there
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| Then hang up the phone, and have my wife call up the phone company
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| And ask the phone company guy «why???»
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| And he’s like, «ma'am…well, maybe you just don’t know how to talk.»
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| And she’s like, «damn…well…wanna fuck me?»
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| «yeah of course.»
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| See? |
| case closed. |
| and he knows how to trace calls
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| So i can’t make cranks saying, «i hate ya’ll!»
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| I throw baseballs at my mirror, break walls a tear a-
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| Nother page out of my diary, throwing it from the eighth floor 'til i hear a
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| Pin drop. |
| unsuspecting pallbearers are in shock
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| They know i’m about to kill myself with a sling shot
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| They bring rocks for ammunition
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| Steal my lifetime magazines and then cancel my subscription
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| Their hands are just itching to scratch my clean records
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| My rap sheets are infected, now i can’t be president???
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| I just have to be elected! |
| i ask for just a second chance
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| The answer back was «kid, you never did in the first place.»
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| Speaking of that, give me my blue ribbons back and anything that is mine
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| Waiting for a nice guy who can’t make it to the finish line
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| When i die you won’t recognize the picture buried inside the obituary
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| But it’ll say, «bye, i miss you very much.»
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| I’m always one for last words at departing time
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| In a million years is when this dead star will shine
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| Say my fuckin' name. |
| nope. |
| say my fuckin' name. |
| nope
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| You don’t…know what to call me so you don’t
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| You don’t you don’t call me
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| You don’t you don’t call me |