Under the table and down in the pit with out plastic potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the spoons you made rhythm; I whistled the blues 'cos my throat's been misused. My voice is a crack in the tar; in the jar is a tablet they sent in the post, with a pamphlet. With an order; \"Take this when the pain gets too much!\" I confess I feel nothing at all... I'm bored and you're bald, but I laughed when you called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me. I'm guilty, no secrets. You're not such a picture yourself. Your brown eyes I know so very very well. They're sadder and wiser; we've finally been through it all, now our time's slowly ticking away. Do you think there's a heaven? (backwards: I fell nothing at all)
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