He was clean-shaven, he was life-saving
Skinny and pale, but not too tall though
He stuck to bad mirrors, only looking at himself
Broken and smoking, like everyone I know
I’ve got everybody I need, just to keep talking to me
To sleep only with me in my small bed
Nelson Mandela’s been freed; they tell me Tibet’s still Chinese
But I can’t fall asleep with all of these thoughts in my head
He was a nothing, it was so touching
Ghosts of joy and gloom, like in an old western
And he treats me like syrup, and no one goes near us
Blistering two-plus eyes always looking right through us
I’ve got envy, jealousy, and greed, just to keep people away
Nobody to play in my air space
Quickly playing a set, strictly posing a threat
Thinking I’m a better somebody than anyone else in this place
And he treats me like syrup, and he treats me like syrup
I stare at the clouds, and no, I’ll never look down at you, or anything
But he treats me like syrup, oh, he treats me like syrup
All of the time…
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