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And when I'm eighty I'll still be shaking my artificial hips to the beat of the life support machine.
Objective: use our tongues like knives to comb the clubs and bars and dives in hopes to find some women fitting to be future ex-wives. We're sly, we know. I know, you're right. But that doesn't seem to change a thing tonight. I'm armed with scars and the best intentions to use all my limbs like deadly weapons. So draw a crowd and clear the floor then draw your swords in the name of cardboard cause there ain't no shame in the game so don't be afraid but will you answer when the tiger beatbox is calling your name?
My dance card reads like a resume.
I'm sorry son but you're way overqualified.
Well, you can feel your stomach's sick as the room begins to spin. She takes you by the hand and of course you follow her in to the third door on the right. I guess it's one of those nights. Before you know it she disrobes. The floor's covered in clothes. Just for safety, hit the lights. You fall headfirst into bed as you trip over her coat and what's worse is in your head an angel's screaming "Oh, please don't" and before you know it she's panting the words to the record that you wrote.
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