It's no matter how many times you wash your clothes after she's been against them, oh the smell wont ever go away, hard to remember how it's been pressed to her lips. And man, I just can't roll outta bed, call on the Chaplain to see if I'm dead. ...but I'm not. River my telephone cut both lines at the house, off meter of grid. I'll just use candles at night and cook over a fire of real wood cut. Cause our dinner of eggs got all over my face and I dropped my favorite thing in the storm drain, on the walk home, bums plead with me for my pennies. And I can only say "I'm lonely," and that they "wouldn't understand her beauty" and how it "kills me." All that idle chatter moves me to the train lines, where my Mad Hatter goes but can't afford the time anymore to sink with me 'neath stars, and let me drown in her arms. Is it that she can't roll outta bed, phone the Chaplain to see if she's said anything about me?
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