How can a noise on the shore
From a tired little whore
Be considered a good vibration?
And a boy in a sling
Sitting sullen on a swing
Simply cries for his situation.
And his tears ring out
Like a monotone shout
But it doesn't seem to break the surface.
With cuts on his arms
He can do no more harm
But to himself and it's all on purpose.
Mother's wedding ring
And the way she used to sing
How the carpet always smelled of violets
Meloncholy is a well
And it's straight to hell
And the welcome mat's paved with violence.
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