Nobody knows my true identity.
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For all we know I'm John F. Kennedy's
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love child with Nosferatu.
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We can't know, but still we got to.
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Nobody knows how deep this mystery goes,
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but ancient caveman history shows:
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We're all descended from the same evil alien slime.
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And it's a pretty shade of gray.
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It makes the woodwork eat away.
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Glass breaks and cow's milk curdles.
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It glows in the dark and it mutates turtles.
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Somebody told me something interesting.
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They told me the world is always tempesting
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round and around again.
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I've had enough of that pseudo-Zen.
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Somebody else was watching from afar,
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screwing it up like a broken VCR.
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She thought that I was very insincere, because
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I rolled my eyes a bit too much.
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Am I really that out of touch?
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Why should I care about this?
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I'm not concerned with the things I miss.
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I don't see the point in not believing in
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things you can taste like fear and cinnamon.
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Sadly this hasn't gotten me anything but dread and gluttony.
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Under the ground is where I wanna go.
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Surely there is a way, but I dunno
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how to get there. No one seems to know, actually, so
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I tried to use a garden spade,
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but it was very poorly made.
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It broke into so many pieces.
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It's times like these that I wish had
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Telekinesis...Telekinesis...Telekinesis
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-----------------
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Telekinesis
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Lemon Demon |