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Burns

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I wouldn't lie to you Conquer or divide by two Stir my brain until my mind becomes a stew I won't supply the noose A chain be it tight or loose We don't get to wine or dine or choose I'll wait outside for you They'll picture us bright and blue Ripe for the right abuse They don't matter none to us They don't match the bruises the burns or the cuts The nighttime cry of the gnats and cicadas