"The sun's a strange light, nothing grows right anymoreScars on every stalkWhose mouth should I use to talk?The force that marks the routineTemperature whatever degrees create the bad thingAnd lay our heads in it nowNow it's hard to punch the clock on the site where production stoppedI'm just a warehouse filled with junkSome somethings for some someone's tackingTime with tracking eye, tectonic
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