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He cannot say a word but that's okay by me
His corner's all he owns, he guards it jealously
The scrambled head upon his shoulders twists and darts
He couldn't give a shit; he's been enshrined by art

He don't know nothing, on this we both agree
He don't know nothing that I can give to he

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The food that nests within the mane that frames his face
Has lost all empathy with sustenance or taste
He only knows that he can't believe his luck
Two dozen loaves of Molenberg have fallen off a truck

He drags his lurching frame but he don't get too far
His future feast is crushed beneath an '89 Mirage

Oh no, oh no, he doesn't need your sympathy

He has a lover, fond a fragile in his dreams
He's glad she isn't real when he's not what he seems
He doesn't know that I walk upon this Earth
He's only hanging out for time to cure birth

Writer(s): CHRIS KNOX

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