Wits End - Is Subjective | Текст песни

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• Wits End
• Is Subjective

To give a slow sorrowful reading
A few brass coins
Clutched in my bony fists
Gathered together in one room for the first time
Born three years ahead of time
Nineteen seventy-nine

Throwing shadows at passing cars
Fitting initiation
Attacked your books with a knife
Convincing me you have nothing to say
The smell of your own work is the smell of death

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