lyrics
Circling the bottle shop
Entering and walking out
I’m better than this
I guess I’m not though
Just a sip or just a taste
Was a slip or was a waste
Rationalizing Old Grand-Dad
Spinning nights and weak ends
Braising in spiraled ire and wine
Salivating frequently into a paper cup
The wounds won’t heal
But the silence will
A steady hand won’t last
Creases in the crew case
Spinning at The Spot most nights
A view from the center of the world
Is desolate and miniscule, why?
Hours of being functional
Really though what function am I?
Felt so close
Like the end of a half marathon
Feigned a ghost
Living in me
It ceases
In moderation
A moderate view
Of the crash
It pleases
The sensational
Ignorance of the clasp
He might make difference
But of course I think don’t I’ll ever be fine
Loosening every grip
My hands are disappointed
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