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Pure

de Boysetsfire

My mouth is full of your inspiration Cut me,
size me down for your regulation Nothing stands so close to driving Nothing gets tense or biting Nothing stands in the way It's all right Your walls are still white Location
is everything, or so it seems Writing down all your "wrongs" or "rights" In a book you call your own Stand down Silence kills the revolution All that remains stagnant Dies submission is your resolve They've given you all the calls Sucker punched again Blind... blind... blind.

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