| I’m running out of rhymes
|
| I’m running out of art
|
| I’m running out of songs to sing
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| About this wicked world breaking my heart
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| I caught the smell of honey
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| In the tragedian landfill
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| And if the honey don’t get me
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| I know the beehive will
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| Into the oven you go
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| I’m running low on lime
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| to put the rest of lyrics
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| I’m dripping dry on themes and schemes
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| To hobble with your walking stick
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| Who’s that a-nibbling at my house
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| The kids will answer the wind, the wind
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| Into the oven you go
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| Don’t give me that, little pig
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| 'Cause you know better by now
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| That not by the hair of your chin
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| I’ll have to blow your house down
|
| How do you like it, how do you like it
|
| Now you know now
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| The horror is in our hands
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| The hands that hold our hearts down
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| Into the oven you go
|
| And that’s the fever talking, honey
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| «I've come to fatten you up»
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| 'Cause I’m an open book, my honey
|
| Except when the book is shut
|
| Who’s that a-nibbling at my house
|
| The kids will answer the wind, the wind
|
| Don’t give me that, little pig
|
| 'Cause you know better by now
|
| That not by the hair of your chin
|
| I’ll have to blow your house down
|
| Good god almighty! |
| How do you like it, how do you like it
|
| Now you know now
|
| The horror is in our hands
|
| The hands that hold our hearts down
|
| The beauty is unbearable
|
| We want to stretch it all out
|
| The cripple cries out to walk
|
| The songless sings their heart out
|
| Good god almighty! |
| How do you like it, how do you like it
|
| Once you know now
|
| The horror is in our hands
|
| The hands that hold our hearts down
|
| Into the over you go |