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Even the Good Wood Gone
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and when i woke up, i woke up stiff and grey already,
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posed in sleep by something half my cells made stone,
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wrists and ankles crossed at a vulnerable angle,
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and when i woke up, well i woke up alone
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as the only fool or pharaoh present,
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in a shoddy school museum collection
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looted of gold, if there ever was some,
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and even the good wood gone
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remaining fingers curled around the memory of ra,
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left not even with my death mask on,
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heart and other organs missing for so long,
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features faded and dated in estimation,
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and even the good wood gone
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drunk off a leak in the ceiling,
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some mantra stuck on my lips in vain
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no flash photography,
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no flash photography,
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no flash photography,
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and when i'm really buried i'll be buried in cleveland,
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with a new pair of skis and someone's old set of keys to their car,
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and bottom floor apartment door and health club locker,
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throw the scent of my true purpose from god and grave robbers
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my true purpose which i will have taken the care to have kept hidden
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even from myself my whole life
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no flash photography,
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no flash photography,
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no flash photography,
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already grey and rehearsing my mantra,
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left hand gripping hockey stick or cattle prod,
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my final futile act of double deception,
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aloof and tinged with truth as the best lies are,
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as i've always shot pool south paw,
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and many of you who knew me saw
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