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Artiste:
Sprain
Titre:
We Think So Ill Of You
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The Lamb as effigy sighs "I can’t believe it! All my birthdays, thoughts, and ass, burnt to ashes! The critique does not exclude me! I've become the anathema!" Intimately wed to concept over practice The joke goes over my head but I am still laughing at it In the interest of impressions The winking bit of your balancing act Makes a fool of my wire affairs They all see my hand in my pants Point and laugh at idle steers As if the flies don't, on us too, land Flesh is flesh Point and laugh at idle steers As if the fliеs don't, on us too, land Flesh is flesh And you are spеaking to me, and I am nodding my head I have so carefully adorned value upon the space between us Something peeping toms the words To hang a price tag on our interactions And you just killed me off in the film that you're directing And we both smile and nod as I achieve erection I survived the initial crash But was smothered by the airbag Point and laugh at idle steers As if the flies don't, on us too, land Flesh is flesh Point and laugh at idle steers As if the flies don't, on us too, land Flesh is flesh A picture painted in my mind of you reclining nude With obscured intentions Set in bronze Imagine this: I'm the guest on some obscene talk show In a cell of moral compromise The audience is made up of everyone that I have ever met in my entire life Every sin I've ever committed is put up on display by screens hung around the stage And we watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch The host says "I now present to you an elaborate choreography of failure!" The audience erupts with seemingly coordinated jets of jargon laughter "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Shame on you!"