Just a push button, automatic kind of guy. Looking at the liquid just a night after night. Chat room hard core looking to find. My wrists are aching, on screen I'm faking.
It's in a stroke of a brush. It's in the wave of a hand. And a view so bright. It turns the world. And makes all right. Yet seems to say. Come what may.
From the playground to the wasteground. Hope ends at 17 -. Sweeping floors and filling shelves. Forced into government schemes -. 11 years spent to dig out ditches,.
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[lyrics: Comeau]. [Music: Nelson]. . A tailored suit of terror. Rains from the sky. Made of us all. Thousands will die. . Burning, surrounding, nowhere to hide.