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Artist: This Routine is Hell
Break the fingers of the hands that dealt.
Pull off the nails, make sure it felt the grief and the pain of being stuck here in misery lane.
Call us stubborn, call us closer to death.
Yet don’t we all retch at our nicotine breath?
The violence in our heads never seemed to discharge the questioning.
With both feet on the ground, we keep the gods where they can be found: nowhere.
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