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Levels stay low
And I'm forgetting these marks that show
Just what kind of cool I am.
Hands in pockets
And yes sometimes my facts are misconstrued,
But somehow my heels are always found pointing toward you.
I don't think I like the way you think
Stale ideas and inefficiency
But you're a knock-out visceral punch
Goddamn, I'm seeing stars,
But heaped on steeple-top layers of shining disappointment
This one won't glow so gold.
When I quiet my windmill arms
To raise my hand and call for war,
Am I really just waiting for you to call on me?
I wish there was some note I could hit,
Some pitch that I could bend
To make you turn your lofty head and look at me full on.
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