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Is Subjective

This song is by The Birds Are Spies, They Report to the Trees.

To give a slow
Sorrowful reading
A few brass coins
Clutched in my bony fists
Gathered together
In one room
For the first time
Born three years ahead of time
Nineteen seventy-nine
Throwing shoes at passing cars
Fitting initiation
Attacked your books with a knife
Convincing me you have
Nothing to say
The smell of your own work
Is the smell of death

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