i’ve always been a sucker for a good crescendo
and bruising my skull on a subtle expression
when the sun sets we can start to reflect
on all the old wrong words hanging over our heads
even with miracle modern technologies
i know i'll always feel lost instead of free
how many scowls does it take for a home
to be absorbed by the pleasure pond outside
blue blue jeans still go white in the sun
and all my little words dry out with the mud
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