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My grip it slips like no other, like flowers on an infants lips, my grip it slips, I come to claim my reward.
My cigarette seems bothered while on an infants lips, I come I come to claim my reward, to welcome all of my ashes aboard.
To throw my mud into my public eye, and to keep my private one shut, my thoughts seem bothered, they seem to think that I have lost my mind.
I hear talk of suit for mental abuse, and I come I come to claim my reward, for I have begotten my mental turd.
For I have forgotten that my vision is blurred, by my one open eye, I have just been informed that happiness is its own reward.
I leave I leave my pockets are empty, my ashes have taken a train to gay Paris, so I cut off their tails with a butcher’s knife, see how they run, I am my own reward.
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