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Slogging, wobbling,
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though the watchfires have been doused
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On the news every day people are standing up screaming
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That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
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Reduce yourself to a moving mouth, a solemn happiness
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And when the flying is flown and the heart’s
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a fixed point I couldn’t seem to advance on,
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Such treasure in the air,
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this is pigment from a bug, this is pigment
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In what distant deeps or skies