it's bumming, pumping
and it's six past seven,
the wooden booth is stomping
like a living way to heaven,
the glimpses are intended,
the minds are boozed forever,
they never learn to take the branches,
they never go there ever.
although they're so in blow right here,
they're blacking out the color,
they do the grey and wear a paleness
to put themselves in cover
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