That burning feeling.
red liquids.
Clear liquids.
Blessed are the sick.
Children shiver in the river.
Where is our God now?
Does he watch over all in El Segundo?
He don't lie when he say, "under."
I'm wasting away.
I find time to pine.
When pining away my time.
Within sin with no redemption we will find our souls and
the shells they're kept in all wasted away.
Blessed are the sick in me.
The prey, the thrill, the chill and we are martyrs that crumble on time.
Predestination.
We'll stop upon dimes.
And he constructed us all in El Segundo, as the shivering children prayed.
Demons in, demons out.
Cry for dawn.
Gratis.
Bored.
I'm the matador of the children's ward.
Beggars wed choosers.
Red sheets.
Bed sheets.
Boozers.
I'm the head fan.
Blessed be my bed pan.
It's a cold, having just been mugged feeling.
In the sun I've got this for you it's under my fingernails.
I brought this for you.
It's typically Sunday.
I'm digging a hole.
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